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NEW* YORK: 

Harper & Brothers 

1836. 



POEMS 



/ 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



THIRD EDITION. 



NEW-YORK: 
HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-ST. 



1836. 






30461 



[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by 

Harper & Brothers, 
in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] 




BRYANT'S POEMS. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



The present edition contains a few poems which 
were not in the first, and of which two or three have 
never before appeared in print. The author has also 
made a few corrections, some of which were suggested 
by the criticisms which have fallen in his way. 

1* 



PREFACE 









TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



Most of the following poems have been already 
printed. The longest, entitled " The Ages," was pub- 
lished in 1821, in a thin volume, along with about half 
a dozen others now included in this collection. With 
a few exceptions, the remainder have since appeared in 
different publications, mostly of the periodical kind. 
The favour with which the public have regarded them, 
and of w r hich their republication in various compila- 
tions seemed to the author a proof, has induced him to 
collect them into a volume. In preparing them for the 
press, he has made such corrections as occurred to him 
on subjecting them to a careful revision. Sensible as 
he is that no author had ever more cause of gratitude 
to his countrymen for the indulgent estimate placed by 
them on his literary attempts, he yet cannot let this 
volume go forth to the public without a feeling of ap- 
prehension that it may contain things which did not de- 



Vlll PREFACE. 

serve admission, and that the entire collection may not 
be thought worthy of the generous and partial judg- 
ment which has been passed upon some of the separ- 
ate poems. 

New- York, January, 1832. 



CONTENTS. 



Pago 

The Ages, 13 

To the Past, 28 

Thanatopsis, 31 

The Lapse of Time, 34 

To the Evening Wind, 37 

Forest Hymn, 39 

The Old Man's Funeral, 44 

The Rivulet, 46 

The Prairies, 50 

Earth, 55 

To the Apennines, . . 59 

The Knight's Epitaph, 61 

Seventy-Six, 63 

The Living Lost, 65 

The Strange Lady, 67 

The Hunter's Xjsion, 70 

Catterskill Falls, 73 

The Hunter of the Prairies, 78 

The Damsel of Peru, 81. 

Song of Pitcairn's Island, 83 

Rizpah, . . 85 

The Indian Girl's Lament, 89 

The Arctic Lover, 92 

The Massacre at Scio, 94 

Version of a fragment of Simonides, 95 

The Greek Partisan, 97 

Romero, 99 

Monument Mountain, 102 



X CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Murdered Traveller, 107 

Song of The Greek Amazon, 109 

The African Chief, Ill 

Song — " Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow," 114 

An Indian Story, 115 

The Hunter's Serenade, 119 

Song of Marion's Men, 122 

Song — " Dost thou idly ask to hear," 125 

Love and Folly, ' 127 

Fatima and Raduan, 129 

The Death of Aliatar, 131 

The Alcayde of Molina, 134 

From the Spanish of Villegas, 136 

The Life of the Blessed, 137 

Mary Magdalen, 139 

The Siesta, 141 

From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro, &c 143 

The Count of Greiers — From the German, 145 

Song — From the Spanish, 148 

Sonnet — From the Portuguese of Semedo, 150 

Love in the Age of Chivalry, 151 

The Love of God, 153 

The Hurricane, 154 

March, 156 

Spring in Town, 158 

Summer Wind, 161 

Autumn Woods, 163 

A Winter Piece, 166 

11 Oh fairest of the rural maids," 171 

The Disinterred Warrior, 172 

The Greek Boy, ; 174 

" Upon the mountain's distant head," ; . . . 176 

Sonnet— William Tell, 177 

To the River Arve, 178 

Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood, 180 

" W T hen the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam," . 182 
A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson, 183 



CONTENTS. XI 

Page 

The West Wind, 185 

To a Mosquito, 187 

11 1 broke the spell that held me long," ........ 190 

The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus, 191 

June, 195 

The Two Graves, 198 

The New Moon, 201 

The Gladness of Nature, 203 

To the Fringed Gentian, 204 

" Innocent Child and snow-white Flower," 205 

Sonnet — Midsummer, 206 

Sonnet — October, 207 

Sonnet — November, 208 

A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal, 209 

An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers, 213 

Sonnet — To Cole, the painter, departing for Europe, . . . .217 

Green River, 218 

To a Cloud, 221 

After a Tempest, 223 

The Burial-place — A Fragment, 226 

The Yellow Violet, 229 

" I cannot forget with what fervid devotion," 231 

Lines on revisiting the Country, 233 

Sonnet — Mutation, 235 

Hymn to the North Star, 236 

The Twenty-second of December, 238 

Ode for an Agricultural Celebration, 239 

A Walk at Sunset, 241 

Hymn of the Waldenses, 244 

Song of the Stars, 246 

Hymn of the City, 248 

" No Man knoweth his Sepulchre," 250 

11 Blessed are they that mourn," 251 

The Skies, 253 

The Journey of Life, 255 

Sonnet— To , 256 

Death of the Flowers, 257 

A2 



Xll CONTENTS. 

Page 

Hymn to Death, 259 

" Earth's Children cleave to Earth," 265 

To a Waterfowl, 266 

Notes, v 269 



THE AGES. 



When to the common rest that crowns our days, 
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 
Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 
His silver temples in their last repose ; 
When, o'er the buds of youth, the death- wind blows, 
And blights the fairest ; when our bitterest tears 
Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, 
We think on what they were, with many fears 
Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. 



And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, — 
When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept, 
And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, 
And beat in many a heart that long has slept, — 
Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped — 
Are holy ; and high-dreaming bards have told 
Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, 
Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold — 
Those pure and happy times — the golden days of old. 

2 . 



14 THE AGES. 

III. 

Peace to the just man's memory, — let it grow 
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
Of ages ; let the mimic canvass show 
His calm benevolent features ; let the light 
Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight 
Of all but heaven, and, in the book of fame, 
The glorious record of his virtues write, 
And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 
A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame. 

IV. 

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw ; 
Lo ! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, 
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law, 
And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 
Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, 
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 
Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 
From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth. 



Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march, 
Faltered with age at last ? does the bright sun 
Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch, 
Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done. 



THE AGES. 15 

Less brightly ? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on, 
Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky 
With flowers less fair than when her reign begun ] 
Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 
The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye 1 



VI. 

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
New change, to her, of everlasting youth ; 
Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep 
In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep. 

VII. 

Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race 
With his own image, and who gave them sway 
O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, 
Now that our flourisliing nations far away 
Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, 
Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed 
His latest offspring ? will he quench the ray 
Infused by his own forming smile at first, 
And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed ? 



16 THE AGES. 

VIII. 

Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give 
Hope of yet happier days whose dawn is nigh. 
He who has tamed the elements, shall not live 
The slave of his own passions ; he whose eye 
Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 
And in the abyss of brightness dares to span 
The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, 
In God's magnificent works his will shall scan — 
And love and peace shall make their paradise with man. 

IX. 

Sit at the feet of history — through the night 
Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, 
And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ; — 
When, from the genial cradle of our race, 
Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot 
To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, 
Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot 
The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not. 



Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
But smote his brother down in the bright day, 
And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 
His own avenger, girt himself to slay ; 



THE AGES. 



17 



Beside the path the unburied carcass lay ; 
The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 
And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, 
Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men. 



XI. 



But misery brought in love — in passion's strife 
Man gave his heart to mercy pleading long, 
And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life ; 
The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, 
Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong. 
States rose, and, in the shadow of their might, 
The timid rested. To the reverent throng, 
Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, 
Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right. 



XII. 



Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed 
On men the yoke that man should never bear, 
And drove them forth to battle : Lo ! unveiled 
The scene of those stern ages ! What is there ? 
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air 
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb 
Cities and bannered armies ; forms that wear 
The kingly circlet, rise, amid the gloom, 
O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb. 

2* 



IS THE AGES. 

XIII. 

Those ages have no memory — but they left 
A record in the desert — columns strown 
On the waste sands, and statues fall'n and cleft, 
Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 
Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone 
Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread 
In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the Dead ; 

XIV. 

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 
They perished — but the eternal tombs remain — 
And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 
Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ; — 
Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain 
The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 
Like the night heaven when clouds are black with rain. 
But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, 
All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride. 



xv. 

And virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign 
O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke ; 
She left the down-trod nations in disdain, 
And flew to Greece, when liberty awoke, 



THE AGES. 19 

New-born, amid those beautiful vales, and broke 
Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands, 
As the rock shivers in the thunder-stroke. 
And lo ! in full-grown strength, an empire stands 
Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands. 

xvi. 

Oh, Greece ! thy flourishing cities were a spoil 
Unto each other ; thy hard hand oppressed 
And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil 
Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best ; 
And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast, 
Thy just and brave to die in distant climes ; 
Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest 
From thine abominations; after times 
That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes. 

XVII. 

Yet there was that within thee which has saved 
Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name ; 
The story of thy better deeds, engraved 
On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame 
Our chiller virtue ; the high art to tame 
The whirlwind of the passions was thine own ; 
And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 
Far over many a land and age has shone, 
And mingles with the light that beams from God's own 
throne. 



20 THE AGES. 



XVIII. 



And Rome — thy sterner, younger sister, she 
Who awed the world with her imperial frown — 
Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee,- — 
The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 
Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; 
Guilt reigned, and wo with guilt, and plagues came down, 
Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves 
Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves. 



XIX. 



Vainly that ray of brightness from above, 
That shone around the Galilean lake, 
The light of hope, the leading star of love, 
Struggled, the darkness of that day to break ; 
Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake, 
In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame ; 
And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake, 
Were red with blood, and charity became, 
In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name. 



xx. 



They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept 
Within the quiet of the convent cell ; 
The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept, 
And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. 



THE AGES. 21 

Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, 
Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay, 
Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, 
And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the way, 
All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and gray. 



XXI. 

Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain 
Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide 
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 
Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, 
And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide, 
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 
Lo ! to the smiling Arno's classic side 
The emulous nations of the west repair, 
And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there. 

XXII. 

Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend 
From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; 
And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend 
The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; 
And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole 
Who could not bribe a passage to the skies ; 
And vice, beneath the mitre's kind control, 
Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size, 
Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly eyes. 



22 THE AGES. 

XXIII. 

At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled 
To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown, 
The throne, whose roots were in another world, 
And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own. 
From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown, 
Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled ; 
The web, that for a thousand years had grown 
O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread 
Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread. 

XXIV. 

The spirit of that day is still awake, 
And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 
But through the idle mesh of power shall break, 
Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain ; 
Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, 
Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, 
Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 
The smile of heaven ; — till a new age expands 
Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. 



For look again on the past years ; — behold, 
Flown, like the nightmare's hideous shapes, away, 
Full many a horrible worship, that, of old, 
Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway : 



THE AGES. 23 



See crimes that feared not once the eye of day, 
Rooted from men, without a name or place : 
See nations blotted out from earth, to pay 
The forfeit of deep guilt ; — with glad embrace 
The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race. 



XXVI. 



Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are drivei 
They fade, they fly — but truth survives their flight ; 
Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven ; 
Each ray, that shone, in early time, to light 
The faltering footsteps in the path of right, 
Each gleam of clearer brightness, shed to aid 
In man's maturer day his bolder sight, 
All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid, 
Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade. 



xxvir. 



Late, from this western shore, that morning chased 
The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud 
O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud 
Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
Ere while, where yon gay spires their brightness real 
Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were lou 
Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near 



24 



THE AGES. 



XXVIII. 



And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 
And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 
Young group of grassy islands born of him, 
And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, 
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 
The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, 
And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, 
The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. 



XXIX. 

Then, all this youthful paradise around, 
And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 
Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned 
O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray 
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way 
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; 
Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay, 
Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, 

Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. 

» 

XXX. 

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 
Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar, 
Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake, 
And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o'er, 



THE AGES. 25 

The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; 
And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, 
A look of glad and innocent beauty wore, 
And peace was on the earth and in the air, 
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there : 

XXXI. 

Not unavenged — the foeman, from the wood, 
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade 
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; 
All died — the wailing babe — the shrieking maid — 
And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, 
The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, 
When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; 
No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, 
And ever, by their lake, lay moored the light canoe. 

XXXII. 

Look now abroad — another race has filled 
These populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads ; 
Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, 
Shine, disimbowered, and give to sun and breeze 
Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas 
Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. 
B 3 



26 THE AGES. 



XXXIII. 



Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place 
A limit to the giant's unchained strength, 
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race : 
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, 
Stretches the long untravelled path of light 
Into the depths of ages : we may trace, 
Distant, the brightening glory of its flight. 
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 

XXXIV. 

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 
And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain 
To earth her struggling multitude of states ; 
She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain 
Against them, but shake off the vampyre train 
That batten on her blood, and break their net. 
Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain 
The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
To rescue and raise up, draws near — but is not yet 

XXXV. 

But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, 
But with thy children — thy maternal care, 
Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all — 
These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 



THE AGES. 27 

Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 
Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare 
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ] 

B2 



TO THE PAST. 



Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast, 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, 

And last, Man's Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years, 
Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind, 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form — the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 



TO THE PAST. 29 

In vain — thy gates deny- 
All passage save to those who hence depart ; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 

Labours of good to man, 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, — 

Love, that midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame, 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way, 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 

Shall then come forth, to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 



30 TO THE PAST. 

They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 

Smiles, radiant long ago, 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat ; 

All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 

Alone shall Evil die, 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung. 

And her, who, still and cold, 
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. 



THANATOPSIS. 



To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 



32 THANATOPSIS. 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods — rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 

Of morning — and the Barcan desert pierce, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 



THANATOPSIS. 33 

Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw 
Unheeded by the living — and no friend 
Take note of thy departure 1 All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
So live, that when thy summons comes to joiu 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
B 3 



THE LAPSE OF TIME. 



Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
The speed with which our moments fly 

I sigh not over vanished years, 

But watch the years that hasten by. 

Look, how they come, — a mingled crowd 
Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; 

Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 
The wide world changes as I gaze. 

What I grieve that time has brought so soon 

The sober age of manhood on ? 
As idly might I weep, at noon, 

To see the blush of morning gone. 

Could I give up the hopes that glow 

In prospect, like Elysian isles ; 
And let the charming future go, 

With all her promises and smiles ? 

The future ! — cruel were the power 

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart. 
Thou sweetener of the present hour ! 

We cannot — no — we will not part. 



THE LAPSE OF TIME. 35 

Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight 

That makes the changing seasons gay, 
The grateful speed that brings the night, 

The swift and glad return of day ; 

The months that touch, with added grace, 

This little prattler at my knee, 
In whose arch eye and speaking face 

New meaning every hour I see ; 

The years, that o'er each sister land 

Shall lift the country of my birth 
And nurse her strength, till she shall stand 

The pride and pattern of the earth ; 

Till younger commonwealths, for aid, 

Shall cling about her ample robe, 
And from her frown shall shrink afraid 

The crowned oppressors of the globe. 

True — time will seam and blanch my brow — 

Well — I shall sit with aged men, 
And my good glass will tell me how 

A grizzly beard becomes me then. 

And should no foul dishonour lie 

Upon my head, when I am gray, 
Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 

And smooth the path of my decay* 



36 THE LAPSE OF TIME. 

Then haste thee, Time — 'tis kindness all 
That speeds thy winged feet so fast ; 

Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 
And all thy pains are quickly past. 

Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes, 
And as thy shadowy train depart, 

The memory of sorrow grows 
A lighter burden on the heart 



TO THE EVENING WIND. 



Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day. 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 

The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
4 



38 TO THE EVENING WIND. 

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 

And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 

Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore \ 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 



FOREST HYMN. 



The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. 
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 
And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences, 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
AH their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowds and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised. Let me, at least, 
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in his ear. 



40 FOREST HYMN. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green Jeaves in thy breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show, 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds, 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music ; — thou art in the cooler breath, 
That from the inmost darkness of the place, 
Comes, scarcely felt ; — the barky trunks, the ground, 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, 
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 
Wells softly forth and visits the strong roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 



FOREST HYMN. 41 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immoveable stem I stand and seem 

Almost annihilated — not a prince, 

In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me, when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
For ever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die — but see, again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 

One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 

4* 



42 FOREST HYMN. 

After the flight of untold centuries, 

The freshness of her far beginning lies 

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 

Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself 

Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 

From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; — and there have been holy men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus, 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble and are still. Oh, God ! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 



FOREST HYMN. 43 



His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
In these calm shades thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of thy works, 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 



I saw an aged man upon his bier, 

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 

A record of the cares of many a year ; — 
Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 

And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 

Then rose another hoary man and said, 
In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 

Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? 
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 

Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. 

Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, 

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 

O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. 

Why weep ye then for him, who, having won 
The bound of man's appointed years, at last, 

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, 
Serenely to his final rest has passed ; 



THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 45 

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, 

Lingers like twilight hues, wherrthe bright sun is set. 

His youth was innocent ; his riper age, 

Marked with some act of goodness, every day ; 

And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, 
Faded his late declining years away. 

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 

That life was happy ; every day he gave 

Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 
For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 

To mock him with her phantom miseries. 
No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, 
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. 

And I am glad, that he has lived thus long, 

And glad, that he has gone to his reward ; 
Nor deem, that kindly nature did him wrong, 

Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die. 



THE RIVULET. 



This little rill that, from the springs 
Of yonder grove, its current brings, 
Plays on the slope a while, and then 
Goes prattling into groves again, 
Oft to its warbling waters drew 
My little feet, when life was new. 
When woods in early green were dressed, 
And from the chambers of the west 
The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
My truant steps from home would stray, 
Upon its grassy side to play, 
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, 
And crop the violet on its brim, 
With blooming cheek and open brow, 
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 

And when the days of boyhood came, 
And I had grown in love with fame, 
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
My first rude numbers by thy side. 
Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
The scenes of life before me lay. 



THE RIVULET. 47 

Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
Passed o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, 
A name I deemed should never die. 

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
The tall old maples, verdant still, 
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
How swift the years have passed away, 
Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
I wandered in the forest shade. 
Thou, ever joyous rivulet, 
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
And sporting with the sands that pave 
The windings of thy silver wave, 
And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
My early childhood loved to hear ; 
As pure thy limpid waters run, 
As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
The violet there, in soft May dew, 
Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
As green amid thy current's stress, 
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress ; 
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
Still chirps as merrily as then. 



48 THE RIVULET. 

Thou changest not — but I am changed, 
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
And the grave stranger, come to see 
The play-place of his infancy, 
Has scarce a single trace of him 
Who sported once upon thy brim. 
The visions of my youth are past — 
Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
I've tried the world — it wears no more 
The colouring of romance it wore. 
Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
She promised to my earliest youth 
The radiant beauty, shed abroad 
On all the glorious works of God, 
Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 
Each charm it wore in days gone by. 

A few brief years shall pass away, 
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
My ashes in the embracing mould 
(If haply the dark will of fate 
Indulge my life so long a date), 
May come for the last time to look 
Upon my childhood's favourite brook. 
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
And faintly on my ear shall fall 
Thy prattling current's merry call ; 



THE RIVULET. 49 

Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
As when thou met'st my infant sight. 

And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
As ages after ages glide, 
Children their early sports shall try, 
And pass to hoary age and die. 
But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
Gaily shalt play and glitter here ; 
Amid young flowers and tender grass 
Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 
And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
C 5 



THE PRAIRIES. 



These are the Gardens of the Desert, these 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
For which the speech of England has no name — 
The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
In airy undulations, far away, 
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, 
And motionless for ever. — Motionless ? — 
No — they are all unchained again. The clouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! 
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have played 
Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
Into the calm Pacific — have ye fanned 
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this 1 
Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 



i 



THE PRAIRIES. 51 

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes 
With herbage, planted them with island groves, 
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 
For this magnificent temple of the sky — 
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, — 
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 
Than that which bends above the eastern hills. 
As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides, 
The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 
The dead of other days ? — and did the dust 
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds 
That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 
Answer. A race, that long has passed away, 
Built them ; — a disciplined and populous race 
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek 
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, 
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, 
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
All day this desert murmured with their toils, 
C 2 



52 THE PRAIRIES. 

Till twilight blushed and lovers walked, and wooed 

In a forgotten language, and old tunes, 

From instruments of unremembered form, 

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came— 

The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, 

And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. 

The solitude of centuries untold 

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie wolf 

Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 

Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 

Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone — 

All— save the piles of earth that hold their bones— 

The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods- 

The barriers which they builded from the soil 

To keep the foe at bay— till o'er the walls 

The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 

The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped 

With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, 

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 

Haply some solitary fugitive, 

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 

Of desolation and of fear became 

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 

Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words 

Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors 

Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 

A bride among their maidens, and at length 

Seemed to forget,— yet ne'er forgot,— the wife 



THE PRAIRIES. 53 

Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. 

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
Races of living things, glorious in strength, 
And perish, as the quickening breath of Cod 
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man too — 
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, 
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
No longer by these streams, but far away, 
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
The white man's face — among Missouri's springs, 
And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, 
He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, 
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
The earth with thundering steps — yet here I meet 
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 

Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, 
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
A more adventurous colonist than man, 
With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 
And hides his swtets, as in the golden age, 

5* 



54 THE PRAIRIES. 

Within the hollow oak. I listen long 

To his domestic hum, and think I hear 

The sound of that advancing multitude 

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground 

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 

Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 

Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 

Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, 

And I am in the wilderness alone. 



EARTH. 



A midnight black with clouds is in the sky ; 
I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight 
Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain 
Turns the tired eye in search of form ; no star 
Pierces the pitchy veil ; no ruddy blaze, 
From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, 
Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. 
No sound of life is heard, no village hum, 
Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path, 
Nor rush of wing, while, on the breast of Earth, 
I lie and listen to her mighty voice : 
A voice of many tones — sent up from streams 
That wander through the gloom, from woods unseen, 
Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air, 
From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 
And hollows of the great invisible hills, 
And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far 
Into the night — a melancholy sound ! 

Oh Earth ! dost thou too sorrow for the past 
Like man thy offspring ? Do I hear thee mourn 
Thy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springs 
Gone with their genial airs and melodies, 
The gentle generations of thy flowers, 



56 EARTH. 

And thy majestic groves of olden time, 

Perished with all their dwellers ? Dost thou wail 

For that fair age of which the poets tell, 

Ere the rude winds grew keen with frost, or fire 

Fell with the rains, or spouted from the hills, 

To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night 

Was guiltless and salubrious as the day ? 

Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die — 

For living things that trod a while thy face, 

The love of thee and heaven — and now they sleep 

Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herds 

Trample and graze 1 I too must grieve with thee, 

O'er loved ones lost — their graves are far away 

Upon thy mountains, yet, while I recline, 

Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, 

The mighty nourisher and burial-place 

Of man, I feel that I embrace their dust. 

Ha ! how the murmur deepens ! I perceive 
And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth 
Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, 
And Heaven is listening. The forgotten graves 
Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. 
The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, 
And him who died neglected in his age ; 
The sepulchres of those who for mankind 
Laboured, and earned the recompense of scorn ; 
Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones 
Of those who, in the strife for liberty, 
Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, 
Their names to infamy, all find a voice. 



EARTH. 57 

The nook in which the captive, overtoiled, 

Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds 

Childhood's sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands, 

Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields, 

Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hosts 

Against each other, rises up a noise, 

As if the armed multitudes of dead 

Stirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tones 

Come from the green abysses of the sea — 

A story of the crimes the guilty sought 

To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves, 

Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, 

And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanes 

Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed, 

Murmur of guilty force and treachery. 

Here, where I rest, the vales of Italy 
Are round me, populous from early time, 
And field of the tremendous warfare waged 
'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas, shall dare 
Interpret to man's ear the mingled voice 
From all her ways and walls, and streets and streams, 
And hills and fruitful fields? Old dungeons breathe 
Of horrors veiled from history ; the stones 
Of mouldering amphitheatres, where flowed 
The life-blood of the warrior slave, cry out. 
The fanes of old religions, the proud piles 
Reared with the spoil of empires, yea, the hearths 
Of cities dug from their volcanic graves, 
Report of human suffering and shame 
And folly. Even the common dust, among 
C3 



58 EARTH. 

The springing corn and vine-rows, witnesses 
To ages of oppression. Ah, I hear 
A murmur of confused languages, 
The utterance of nations now no more, 
Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven 
Chase one another from the sky. The blood 
Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords 
Came in the hour of weakness, and made fast 
The yoke that yet is worn, appeals to Heaven. 

What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth, 
From all its painful memories of guilt ? 
The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, 
Or the slow change of time? that so, at last, 
The horrid tale of perjury and strife, 
Murder and spoil, which men call history, 
May seem a fable, like the inventions told 
By poets of the gods of Greece. Oh thou, 
Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, 
Among the sources of thy glorious streams, 
My native Land of Groves ! a newer page 
In the great record of the world is thine, 
Shall it be fairer ? Fear, and friendly Hope, 
And Envy, watch the issue, while the lines, 
By which thou shalt be judged, are written down. 



TO THE APENNINES. 



Tour peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines ! 

In the soft light of these serenest skies ; 
From the broad highland region, black with pines, 

Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, 
Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold 
In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. 

There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear 
The glory of a brighter world, might spring 

Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, 
And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing, 

To view the fair earth in its summer sleep, 

Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep. 

Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old 
Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday ; 

The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould — 
Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey 

Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain, 

Was yielded to the elements again. 

Ages of war have filled these plains with fear ; 

How oft the hind has started at the clash 
Of spears, and yell of meeting armies here, 

Or seen the lightning of the battle flash 



60 TO THE APENNINES. 

From clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound, 
Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground. 

Ah me ! what armed nations — Asian horde, 
And Lybian host — the Scythian and the Gaul, 

Have swept your base and through your passes poured, 
Like ocean-tides uprising at the call 

Of tyrant winds — against your rocky side 

The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died. 

How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, 
Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain ; 

And commonwealths against their rivals rose, 

Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain ! 

While in the noiseless air and light that flowed 

Round your far brows, eternal Peace abode. 

Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar flames 
Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng, 

Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names ; 
While, as the unheeding ages passed along, 

Ye, from your station in the middle skies, 

Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise. 

In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks 
Her image ; there the winds no barrier know, 

Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks ; 
While even the immaterial Mind, below, 

And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power, 

Pine silently for the redeeming hour. 



THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 



This is the church which Pisa, great and free, 
Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, 
That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear 
To shiver in the deep and voluble tones 
Rolled from the organ ! Underneath my feet 
There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. 
The image of an armed knight is graven 
Upon it, clad in perfect panoply — 
Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm, 
Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield. 
Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim 
By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, 
And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. 
Why should I pore upon them ? This old tomb, 
This effigy, the strange disused form 
Of this inscription, eloquently show 
His history. Let me clothe in fitting words 
The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph. 

" He whose forgotten dust for centuries 
Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom 
Adventure, and endurance, and emprise 
Exalted the mind's faculties and strung 
The body's sinews. Brave he was in fight, 
Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, 
6 



62 the knight's epitaph. 

And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, 
And quick to draw the sword in private feud. 
He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed 
The saints as fervently on bended knees 
As ever shaven cenobite. He loved 
As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne 
The maid that pleased him from her bower by night, 
To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears 
His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks 
On his pursuers. He aspired to see 
His native Pisa queen and arbitress 
Of cities ; earnestly for her he raised 
His voice in council, and affronted death 
In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck, 
And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, 
Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quay 
The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. 
He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke, 
But would have joined the exiles, that withdrew 
For ever, when the Florentine broke in 
The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts 
For trophies — but he died before that day. 
" He lived, the impersonation of an age 
That never shall return. His soul of fire 
Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 
He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds, 
Shuddering at blood ; the effeminate cavalier, 
Turning from the reproaches of the past, 
And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, 
And love, and music, his inglorious life." 



SEVENTY-SIX. 






What heroes from the woodland sprung, 
When, through the fresh awakened land, 

The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 

And *o the work of warfare strung 
The yeoman's iron hand ! 

Hills flung the cry to hills around, 

And ocean-mart replied to mart, 
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
Pealed far away the startling sound 

Into the forest's heart. 

Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 

From mountain river swift and cold ; 
The borders of the stormy deep, 
The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
Sent up the strong and bold. 

As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God's creating breath 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 

To battle to the death. 



64 SEVENTY-SIX. 

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 

The fair fond bride of yestereve, 
And aged sire and matron gray, 
Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
And deemed it sin to grieve. 

Already had the strife begun ; 

Already blood on Concord's plain 
Along the springing grass had run, 
And blood had flowed at Lexington, 

Like brooks of April rain. 

That death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore ; 

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 

The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 



THE LIVING LOST. 



Matron ! the children of whose love, 

Each to his grave, in youth have passed, 
And now the mould is heaped above 

The dearest and the last ! 
Bride ! who dost wear the widow's veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale ! 
Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 

Yet there are pangs of keener wo, 

Of which the sufferers never speak, 
Nor to the world's cold pity show 
The tears that scald the cheek, 
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
Whom once they loved, with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still. 

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve ; 

And graceful are the tears ye shed, 
And honoured ye who grieve. 
6* 



66 THE LIVING LOST. 

The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 
The hope to meet when life is past, 
Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 

But ye, who for the living lost 
That agony in secret bear, 
Who shall with soothing words accost 

The strength of your despair? 
Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn ; 
And o'er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 



THE STRANGE LADY 



The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting 

by, 

As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool 

clear sky ; 
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound, 
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground. 

A lovely woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight ; 
Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown aud 

bright ; 
She wears a tunic of the blue, her belt with beads is strung, 
And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English 

tongue. 

" It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow ; 

Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand ; beshrew my erring bow!" 

" Ah ! would that bolt had not been spent, then, lady, might 

I wear 
A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair !" 

" Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with 

me 
A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the greenwood tree, 



68 THE STRANGE LADY. 

I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red- 
deer herd, 

And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I bring down 
the bird." 

Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, 
And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face : 
4 Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not 

meet 
That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet." 

" Heed not the night, a summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 
'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine ; 
The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets 

nigh, 
And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the 

sky. 

" There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits 

and sings, 
And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock 

swings ; 
A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples 

sweep, 
Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep." 

Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go, 

He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, 

Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of win- 

tergreen, 
And never at his father's door again was Albert seen. 



THE STRANGE LADY. 69 

That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane, 

With howl of winds and roar of streams and beating of the 
rain ; 

The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its 
crash ; 

The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the light- 
ning-flash. 

Next day, within a mossy glen, mid mouldering trunks were 

found 
The fragments of a human form, upon the bloody ground ; 
White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of 

glossy hair ; 
They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose 

they were. 

And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert 

so, 
Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious 

foe, 
Or whether to that forest lodge, beyond the mountains blue, 
He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him 

never knew. 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 



Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 
Rose from the mountain's breast, 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared, to the soft summer air, 

His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between ; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 
By forests, faintly seen ; 

While ever rose a murmuring sound, 

From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear 

A strain, so soft and low, 
That whether in the mind or ear 

The listener scarce might know. 
With such a tone, so sweet and mild, 
The watching mother lulls her child. 

Thou weary huntsman, thus it said, 
Thou faint with toil and heat, 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 71 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
Are waiting there to welcome thee. 

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 

Amid the noontide haze, 
A shadowy region met his eye, 

And grew beneath his gaze, 
As if the vapours of the air 
Had gathered into shapes so fair. 

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 

Showed bright on rocky bank, 
And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 

Where deer and pheasant drank. 
He saw the glittering streams, he heard 
The rustling bough and twittering bird. 

And friends — the dead — in boyhood dear, 

There lived and walked again, 
And there was one who many a year 

Within her grave had lain, 
A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 
His heart was breaking when she died : 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came 

Right towards his resting-place, 
And stretched her hand and called his name 

With that sweet smiling face. 
Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, 
The hunter leaned in act to rise : / 



72 the hunter's vision. 

Forward he leaned, and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall, 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, 
An instant, in his fall ; 

A frightful instant — and no more, 

The dream and life at once were o'er. 



CATTERSKILL FALLS. 



Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings ; 

All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 

With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs ; 

And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, 

When they drip with the rains of autumn tide. 

But when, in the forest bare and old, 

'The blast of December calls, 
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 

A palace of ice where his torrent falls, 
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, 
And pillars blue as the summer air. 

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, 

In the cold and cloudless night ? 
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 

In forms so lovely and hues so bright ? 
Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 
D 7 



74 CATTERSKILL FALLS. 

'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, 

A hundred winters ago, 
Had wandered over the mighty wood, 

When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, 
And keen were the winds that came to stir 
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir. 

Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, 
For a child of those rugged steeps ; 

His home lay low in the valley where 
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps ; 

But he wore the hunter's frock that day, 

A i a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 

And here he paused, and against the trunk 

Of a tall gray linden leant, 
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk 

From his path in the frosty firmament, 
And over the round dark edge of the hill 
A cold green light was quivering still. 

And the crescent moon, high over the green, 

From a sky of crimson shone, 
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 

To sparkle as if with stars of their own ; 
While the water fell, with a hollow sound, 
'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 

Is that a being of life, that moves 
Where the crystal battlements rise ? 



CATTERSKILL FALLS. 75 

A maiden, watching the moon she loves, 

At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes 1 
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream 1 

'Tis only the torrent, tumbling o'er, 

In the midst of those glassy walls, 
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor 

Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 
'Tis only the torrent — but why that start ? 
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart ? 

He thinks no more of his home afar, 

Where his sire and sister wait. 
He heeds no longer how star after star 

Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late. 
He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast, 
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. 

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 

In the halls of frost and snow, 
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 

From the alabaster floors below, 
Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray, 
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 

" And oh that those glorious haunts were mine !" 

He speaks, and throughout the glen 
Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, 

And take a ghastly likeness of men, 
D2 



76 CATTERSKILL FALLS. 

As if the slain by the wintry storms 
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 

There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 

With their weapons quaint and grim, 
And bands of warriors in glimmering mail, 

And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. 
There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 

There are mothers — and oh how sadly their eyes 

On their children's white brows rest ; 
There are youthful lovers — the maiden lies, 

In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast ; 
There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, 
The snow stars flecking their long loose hair. 

They eye him not as they pass along, 

But his hair stands up with dread, 
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, 

Till those icy turrets are over his head, 
And the torrent's roar as they enter seems 
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, 
When there gathers and wraps him round 

A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, 
In which there is neither form nor sound ; 

The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, 

With the dying voice of the waterfall. 



CATTERSKILL FALLS. 77 

Slow passes the darkness of that trance, 

And the youth now faintly sees 
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 

On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, 
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, 
And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies ; 

As he strives to raise his head, 
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, 

Come round him and smooth his furry bed, 
And bid him rest, for the evening stal- 
ls scarcely set, and the day is far. 

They had found at eve the dreaming one 

By the base of that icy steep, 
When over his stiffening limbs begun 

The deadly slumber of frost to creep, 
And they cherished the pale and breathless form, 
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 

7* 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke : 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed, 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me, where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 

The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, 
Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 79 

In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frostwinds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle's sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 

Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
The boundless future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass 1 



80 SONG OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes, 

That welcome my return at night. 



THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 



Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, 
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. 
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, 
Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair ; 
And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, 
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. 

'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue, 
That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung ; 
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, 
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the 

foe. 
Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew 
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. 

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, 
And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly towards the 

north. 
Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would 

fail, 
To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; 
For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, 
And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat. 

D3 



82 THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, 
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, 
Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,— 
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, 
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, 
And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. 

But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horseman ride ; 
Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. 
His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with loosened rein, 
There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the 

mane, 
He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded 

hill — 
God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her 

ill! 

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear 
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not of fear. 
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak 
The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak : 
" I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, 
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee," 



A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 



Come, take our boy, and we will go 

Before our cabin door ; 
The winds shall bring us, as they blow, 

The murmurs of the shore ; 
And we will kiss his young blue eyes, 
And I will sing him, as he lies, 

Songs that were made of yore ; 
I'll sing, in his delighted ear, 
The island lays thou lov'st to hear. 

And thou, while stammering I repeat, 
Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 
'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet, 

Than my own native speech : 
For thou no other tongue didst know, 
When, scarcely twenty moons ago, 

Upon Tahete's beach, 
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, 
"With many a speaking look and sign, 

I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise 
My eyes, my locks of jet ; 

Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze, — 
But thine were fairer yet ! 



84 A SONG OF PITCAIRN S ISLAND. 

I'm glad to see my infant wear 
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, 

And when my sight is met 
By his white brow and blooming cheek, 
I feel a joy I cannot speak. 

Come talk of Europe's maids with me, 

Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, 
Outshine the beauty of the sea, 

White foam and crimson shell. 
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, 
And bind like them each jetty tress. 

A sight to please thee well : 
And for my dusky brow will braid 
A bonnet like an English maid. 

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 

We lose the pleasant hours ; 
'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls, — 

That seat among the flowers. 
And I will learn of thee a prayer, 
To Him, who gave a home so fair, 

A lot so blessed as ours — 
The God who made, for thee and me, 
This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 



RIZPAH. 



And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged 
them in the hill before the Lord ; and they fell all seven together, and were 
put to death in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning 
of barley-harvest. 

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her 
upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon 
them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon 
them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 

2 Samuel, xxi., 10. 

Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, 
As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead. 
The sons of Michal before her lay, 
And her own fair children, dearer than they : 
By a death of shame they all had died, 
And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. 
And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 
That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, 
All wasted with watching and famine now, 
And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, 
Sat, mournfully guarding their corpses there, 
And murmured a strange and solemn air ; 
The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain 
Of a mother that mourns her children slain. 

8 



86 RIZPAH. 

I have made the crags my home, and spread 
On their desert backs my sackcloth bed ; 
I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, 
And drunk the midnight dew in my locks ; 
I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain 
Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain. 
Seven blackened corpses before me lie, 
In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. 
I have watched them through the burning day, 
And driven the vulture and raven away ; 
And the cormorant wheeled in circles round, 
Tet feared to alight on the guarded ground. 
And, when the shadows of twilight came, 
I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame, 
And heard at my side his stealthy tread, 
But aye at my shout the savage fled : 
And I threw the lighted brand, to fright 
The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. 

Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons, 
By the hands of wicked and cruel ones ; 
Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime* 
All innocent, for your father's crime. 
He sinned — but he paid the price of his guilt 
When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt ; 
When he strove with the heathen host in vain, 
And fell with the flower of his people slain, 
And the sceptre his children's hands should sway 
From his injured lineage passed away. 



RIZPAH. 87 

But I hoped that the cottage roof would be 
A safe retreat for my sons and me ; 
And that while they ripened to manhood fast, 
They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past. 
And iny bosom swelled with a mother's pride, 
As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, 
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace 
Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. 

Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, 
When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart ! 
When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, 
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, 
And clung to my sons with desperate strength, 
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, 
And bore me breathless and faint aside, 
In their iron arms, while my children died. 
They died — and the mother that gave them birth 
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. 

The barley-harvest was nodding white, 
When my children died on the rocky height, 
And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, 
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. 
But now the season of rain is nigh, 
The sun is dim in the thickening sky, 
And the clouds in sullen darkness rest 
Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. 
I hear the howl of the wind that brings 
The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; 



88 RIZPAH. 



But the howling wind, and the driving rain 
Will beat on my houseless head in vain : 
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare 
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air. 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 



An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
Came down o'er eyes that wept ; 

And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 

This sad and simple lay she sung : 

I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest boughs that threw 
Their shadows o'er thy bed, 

That shining from the sweet southwest 

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

It was a weary, weary road 

That led thee to the pleasant coast, 
Where thou, in his serene abode, 

Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
Where everlasting autumn lies 
On yellow woods and sunny skies. 

'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 
That shod thee for that distant land ; 

'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
Beside thy still cold hand ; 



90 THE INDIAN GIRL's LAMENT. 

Thy bow in many a battle bent, 
Thy arrows never vainly sent. 

With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, 

And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
In plenty, by thy side, 

And decked thee bravely, as became 

A warrior of illustrious name. 

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 

And in the land of light, at last, 
Hast joined the good and brave ; 

Amid the flushed and balmy air, 

The bravest and the loveliest there. 

Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,- 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 

And w T eeps the hours away, 
Yet almost can her grief forget, 
To think that thou dost love her yet. 

And thou, by one of those still lakes 

That in a shining cluster lie, 
On which the south wind scarcely breaks 

The image of the sky, 
A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-coloured shade. 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 91 

And thou dost wait and watch to meet 

My spirit sent to join the blessed, 
And, wondering what detains my feet 

From the bright land of rest, 
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
The rustling of my footsteps near. 



THE ARCTIC LOVER. 



Gone is the long, long winter night, 

Look, my beloved one ! 
How glorious, through his depths of light, 

Rolls the majestic sun. 
The willows, waked from winter's death, 
Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 

The summer is begun ! 

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : 

Hark, to that mighty crash ! 
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 

The smitten waters flash. 
Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 
While, down its green translucent sides, 

The foamy torrents dash. 

See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 

By ocean's weedy floor — 
The petrel does not skim the sea 

More swiftly than my oar. 
We'll go where, on the rocky isles, 
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 

Beside the pebbly shore. 



THE ARCTIC LOVER. 93 

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 

With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
While I, upon his isle of snows, 

Seek and defy the bear. 
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
This arm his savage strength shall tame, 

And drag him from his lair. 

When crimson sky and flamy cloud 

Bespeak the summer o'er, 
And the dead valleys wear a shroud 

Of snows that melt no more, 
I'll build of ice thy winter home, 
With glistening walls and glassy dome, 

And spread with skins the floor. 

The white fox by thy couch shall play ; 

And, from the frozen skies, 
The meteors of a mimic day 

Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 

Till that long midnight flies. 



THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 



Weep not for Scio's children slain ; 

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, 
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain 

For vengeance on the murderer's head. 

Though high the warm red torrent ran 
Between the flames that lit the sky, 

Yet, for each drop, an armed man 
Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 

And for each corpse, that in the sea 
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, 

A hundred of the foe shall be 

A banquet for the mountain birds. 

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 
To keep that day, along her shore, 

Till the last link of slavery's chain 
Is shivered, to be worn no more. 



VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES. 



The night winds howled — the billows dashed 

Against the tossing chest ; 
And Danae to her broken heart 

Her slumbering infant pressed. 

My little child — in tears she said — 

To wake and weep is mine, 
But thou canst sleep — thou dost not know 

Thy mother's lot, and thine. 

The moon is up, the moonbeams smile — 

They tremble on the main ; 
But dark, within my floating cell, 

To me they smile in vain. 

Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, 

Thy clustering locks are dry, 
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, 

Nor breakers booming high. 

As o'er thy sweet unconscious face 

A mournful watch I keep, 
I think, didst thou but know thy fate, 

How thou wouldst also weep. 



96 VERSION OF A FRAGMENT. 

Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds 
That vex the restless brine — 

When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed 
As peacefully as thine. 



THE GREEK PARTISAN. 



Our free flag is dancing 

In the free mountain air, 
And burnished arms are glancing, 

And warriors gathering there ; 
And fearless is the little train 

Whose gallant bosoms shield it ; 
The blood that warms their hearts shall stain 

That banner, ere they yield it. 
— Each dark eye is fixed on earth, 

And brief each solemn greeting ; 
There is no look nor sound of mirth, 

Where those stern men are meeting. 

They go to the slaughter, 

To strike the sudden blow, 
And pour on earth, like water, 

The best blood of the foe ; 
To rush on them from rock and height, 

And clear the narrow valley, 
Or fire their camp at dead of night, 

And fly before they rally. 
9 



98 THE GREEK PARTISAN. 

— Chains are round our country pressed, 
And cowards have betrayed her, 

And we must make her bleeding breast 
The grave of the invader. 

Not till from her fetters 

We raise up Greece again, 
And write, in bloody letters, 

That tyranny is slain, — 
Oh, not till then the smile shall steal 

Across those darkened faces, 
Nor one of all those warriors feel 

His children's dear embraces. 
— Reap we not the ripened wheat, 

Till yonder hosts are flying, 
And all their bravest, at our feet, 

Like autumn sheaves are lying. 



ROMERO. 



When freedom, from the land of Spain, 

By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, 
Who gave their willing limbs again 

To wear the chain so lately riven ; 
Romero broke the sword he wore — 

Go, faithful brand, the warrior said, 
Go, undishonoured, never more 

The blood of man shall make thee red ; 

I grieve for that already shed ; 
And I am sick at heart to know, 
That faithful friend and noble foe 
Have only bled to make more strong 
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear — 

I wear it not who have been free ; 
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 

No oath of loyalty from me. 
Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 

Romero chose a safe retreat, 
Where bleak Nevada's summits tower 

Above the beauty at their feet. 
There once, when on his cabin lay 
The crimson light of setting day, 
E 2 



100 ROMERO. 

When even on the mountain's breast 
The chainless winds were all at rest, 
And he could hear the river's flow 
From the calm paradise below ; 
Warmed with liis former fires again, 
He framed this rude but solemn strain. 



Here will I make my home — for here at least I see, 
Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty ; 
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, 
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the 

mountain thyme ; 
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild vine gads 

at will, 
An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature 

still. 



I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers run, 
And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun, 
And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the 

green, 
Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive 

shades between : 
I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near, 
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me 

here. 



ROMERO. 101 



III. 



Fair — fair — but fallen Spain ! 'tis with a swelling heart, 
That I think on all thou might'st have been, and look at what 

thou art ; 
But the strife is over now — and all the good and brave, 
That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the 

grave. 
Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, 
And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord 

and priest. 

IV. 

But I shall see the day — it will come before I die — 
I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed 

eye;— 
When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, 
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the 

ground ; 
And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 
Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea. 

9* 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 



Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild 
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, 
The haunts of men below thee, and around 
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 
To which thou art translated, and partake 
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 
Upon the gr^,n and rolling forest tops, 
And down into the secrets of the glens, 
And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive 
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 
Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 
And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 
That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 
And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice 
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 
Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 103 

To separate its nations, and thrown down 

When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 

Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 

With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 

Sheer to the vale go down the bare old clifTs, — 

Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 

Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 

With the thick moss of centuries, and there 

Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 

Has splintered them. It is a fearful tiling 

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 

Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, 

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base 

Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 

Is lovely round ; a beautiful river there 

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself, 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 

The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven. 

There is a tale about these gray old rocks, 
A sad tradition of unhappy love, 
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, 
When over these fair vales the savage sought 



104 MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, 

The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 

With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 

And a gay heart. About her cabin door 

The wide old woods resounded with her song 

And fairy laughter all the summer day. 

She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 

By the morality of those stern tribes, 

Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 

Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 

As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 

Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 

Its lightness, and the gray old men that passed 

Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 

The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 

Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said 

Upon the Winter of their age. She went 

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 

When all the merry girls were met to dance, 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 

Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk 

The shining ear ; nor when, by the river's side, 

They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades 

With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 

Would whisper to each other, as they saw 

Her wasting form, and say, the girl will die. 

One day into the bosom of a friend, 
A playmate of her young and innocent years, 
She poured her griefs. Thou know'st, and thou alone, 
She said, for I have told thee, all my love, 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 105 

And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 
That has no business on the earth. I hate 
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 
I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
In dreams my mother, from the land of souls, 
Calls me and chides me. All that look on me 
Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must die. 

It was a Summer morning, and they went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe 
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed* 
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 
Doth walk on the high places and affect 
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. ' She had on 
The ornaments with which her father loved 
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, 
And bade her wear when stranger warriors came 
To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down. 
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death, 
And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 
And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 

E 3 



106 MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

Below her — waters resting in the embrace 

Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 

Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 

Of her own village peeping through the trees, 

And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 

Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 

Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low 

And the hill shadows long, she threw herself 

From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped, 

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 

With which the maiden decked herself for death, 

With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 

And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 

Buijt up a simple monument, a cone 

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who passed, 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 

In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians from the distant West, who come 

To visit where their fathers' bones are laid, 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 

The mountain where the hapless maiden died 

Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 



When spring, to woods and wastes around, 

Brought bloom and joy again, 
The murdered traveller's bones were found, 

Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 

His hanging nest o'erhead, 
And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarmed, and hard beset ; — 



108 THE MURDERED TRAVELLER 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 

The northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 

To banquet on the dead ; — 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept. 

Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slepU 

For joy that he was come. 

So long they looked—- but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 



SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 



I buckle to my slender side 

The pistol and the cimater, 
And in my maiden flower and pride 

Am come to share the tasks of war. 
And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
My charger of the Arab breed, — 

I took him from the routed foe. 

My mirror is the mountain spring, 

At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 

And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard, from wind and sun, 

This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled ? 
It was for one — oh, only one — 

I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 

But they who slew him — unaware 

Of coward murderers lurking nigh — 

And left him to the fowls of air, 
Are yet alive — and they must die. 
10 



110 SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 

They slew him — and my virgin years 

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, 

And many an Othman dame, in tears, 
Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. 

I touched the lute in better days, 

I led in dance the joyous band ; 
Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 

Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. 
The march of hosts that haste to meet 

Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet 

As the fierce shout of victory. 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 



Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame. 
Amid the gathering multitude 

That shrunk to hear his name — 
All stern of look and strong of limb, 

His dark eye on the ground : — 
And silently they gazed on him, 

As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 

He was a captive now, 
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow. 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore, 

Showed warrior true and brave ; 
A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake — 

11 My brother is a king ; 
Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring 



112 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

And send me where my brother reigns, 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains, 

And gold-dust from the sands." 

" Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 

Will I unbind thy chain ; 
That bloody hand shall never hold 

The battle-spear again. 
A price thy nation never gave, 

Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, 

In lands beyond the sea." 

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 

To shred his locks away ; 
And, one by one, each heavy braid 

Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long, 

And deftly hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 

The dark and crisped hair. 

" Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 

Long kept for sorest need ; 
Take it — thou askest sums untold 

And say that I am freed. 
Take it — my wife, the long, long day 

Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 
And my young children leave their play, 

And ask in vain for me." 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 113 

" I take thy gold — but I have made 

Thy fetters fast and strong, 
And ween that by the cocoa shade 

Thy wife will wait thee long." 
Strong was the agony that shook 

The captive's frame to hear, 
And the proud meaning of his look 

Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken — crazed his brain : 

At once his eye grew wild ; 
He struggled fiercely with his chain, 

Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; 
Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 

And once, at shut of day, 
They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena's prey. 
10* 



SONG. 



Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
Reflects the day- dawn cold and clear, 

The hunter of the west must go, 
In depth of woods to seek the deer. 

His rifle on his shoulder placed, 

His stores of death arranged with skill, 

His moccasins and snow-shoes laced, — 
Why lingers he beside the hill ? 

Far, in the dim and doubtful light, 
Where woody slopes a valley leave, 

He sees what none but lover might, 
The dwelling of his Genevieve. 

And oft he turns his truant eye, 
And pauses oft, and lingers near ; 

But when he marks the reddening sky, 
He bounds away to hunt the deer. 



AN INDIAN STORY. 



" I know where the timid fawn abides 

In the depths of the shaded dell, 
Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, 
With its many stems and its tangled sides, 

From the eye of the hunter well. 

" I know where the young May violet grows, 

In its lone and lowly nook, 
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 

Far over the silent brook. 

" And that timid fawn starts not with fear 
W r hen I steal to her secret bower, 

And that young May violet to me is dear, 

And I visit the silent streamlet near, 
To look on the lovely flower." 

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, 
With her bright black eyes and long black locks, 
And voice like the music of rills. 






116 AN INDIAN STORY. 

He goes to the chase — hut evil eyes 

Are at watch in the thicker shades ; 
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, 

The flower of the forest maids. 

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred 

And the woods their song renew, 
With the early carol of many a bird, 
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 

Where the hazels trickle with dew. 

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, 

Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
A good red deer from the forest shade, 
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, 

At her cabin door shall lie. 

The hollow woods, in the setting sun, 

Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay ; 
And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, 
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 

He bears on his homeward way. 

He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 

Strange traces along the ground — 
At once, to the earth his burden he heaves, 
He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, 

And gains its door with a bound. 



AN INDIAN STORY. 117 

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, 

And all from the young shrubs there 
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, 
And there hangs, on the sassafras broken and bent, 

One tress of the well-known hair. 

But where is she who at this calm hour, 

Ever watched his coming to see, 
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower, 
He calls — but he only hears on the flower 

The hum of the laden bee. 

It is not a time for idle grief, 

Nor a time for tears to flow, 
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 

Of darts made sharp for the foe. 

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, 

Where he bore the maiden away ; 
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 
Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet 

O'er the wild November day. 

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride 

Was stolen away from his door ; 
But at length the maples in crimson are died, 
And the grape is black on the cabin side, — 

And she smiles at his hearth once more. 



118 AN INDIAN STORY. 

But far in a pine-grove, dark and cold, 

Where the yellow leaf falls not, 
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, 

In the deepest gloom of the spot. 

And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 

Point out the ravisher's grave ; 
" And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, 
" Returned the maid that was borne away 

From Maquon, the fond and the brave." 



THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 



Thy bower is finished, fairest ! 

Fit bower for hunter's bride — 
Where old woods overshadow 

The green savanna's side. 
I've wandered long, and wandered far, 

And never have I met, 
In all this lovely western land, 

A spot so lovely yet. 
But I shall think it fairer, 

When thou art come to bless, 
With thy sweet smile and silver voice, 

Its silent loveliness. 

For thee the wild grape glistens, 

On sunny knoll and tree, 
And stoops the slim papaya 

With yellow fruit for thee. 
For thee the duck, on glassy stream, 

The prairie-fowl shall die, 
My rifle for thy feast shall bring 

The wild swan from the sky. 



120 the hunter's serenade. 

The forest's leaping panther, 
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, 

Shall yield his spotted hide to be 
A carpet for thy feet. 

I know, for thou hast told me, 

Thy maiden love of flowers ; 
Ah, those that deck thy gardens 

Are pale compared with ours. 
When our wide woods and mighty lawns 

Bloom to the April skies, 
The earth has no more gorgeous sight 

To show to human eyes. 
In meadows red with blossoms, 

All summer long, the bee 
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 

For thee, my love, and me. 

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 

Of ages long ago — 
Our old oaks stream with mosses, 

And sprout with mistletoe ; 
And mighty vines, like serpents, climb 

The giant sycamore ; 
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, 

Cumber the forest floor ; 
And in the great savanna 

The solitary mound, 
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks 

The loneliness around. 



THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 121 

Come, thou hast not forgotten 

Thy pledge and promise quite, 
With many blushes murmured, 

Beneath the evening light. 
Come, the young violets crowd my door, 

Thy earliest look to win, 
And at my silent window-sill 

The jessamine peeps in. 
All day the red-bird warbles, 

Upon the mulberry near, 
And the night-sparrow trills her song, 

All night, with none to hear, 
11 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good green wood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear : 
When waking to their tents on fire 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 



song of marion's men. 123 

And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly, 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide 

Across the moonlight plains ; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts their tossing manes. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 
F 2 



124 



Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs, 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band, 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 



SONG. 



Dost thou idly ask to hear 

At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 

Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 

To the careless wooer ; 
Maidens' hearts are always soft ; 

Would that men's were truer ! 

Woo the fair one, when around 

Early birds are singing ; 
When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 

Early herbs are springing : 
When the brookside, bank, and grove, 

All with blossoms laden, 
Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 

Woo the timid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush, 

Summer eve is sinking ; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 

Stars are softly winking ; 
11* 



126 SONG. 

When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 

Woo her, till the gentle hour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when autumnal dies 

Tinge the woody mountain ; 
When the dropping foliage lies, 

In the weedy fountain ; 
Let the scene, that tells how fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her, when the northwinds call 

At the lattice nightly ; 
When, within the cheerful hall, 

Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
While the wintry tempest round 

Sweeps the landscape hoary 
Sweeter in her ear shall sound 

Love's delightful story. 



LOVE AND FOLLY. 

(FROM LA FONTAINE.) 



Love's worshippers alone can know 

The thousand mysteries that are his ; 
His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 

His blooming age are mysteries. 
A charming science — but the day 

Were all too short to con it o'er ; 
So take of me this little lay, 

A sample of its boundless lore. 

As once, beneath the fragrant shade 

Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air, 
The children, Love and Folly, played — 

A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 
Love said the gods should do him right — 

But Folly vowed to do it then, 
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, 

So hard, he never saw again. 

His lovely mother's grief was deep, 
She called for vengeance on the deed ; 

A beauty does not vainly weep, 
Nor coldly does a mother plead. 



128 LOVE AND FOLLY. 

A shade came o'er the eternal bliss 
That fills the dwellers of the skies ; 

Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 

And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 

" Behold," she said, " this lovely boy," 

While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
" Immortal, yet shut out from joy 

And sunshine, all his future years. 
The child can never take, you see, 

A single step without a staff — 
The harshest punishment would be 
Too lenient for the crime by half." 

All said that Love had suffered wrong, 

And well that wrong should be repaid ; 
Then weighed the public interest long, 

And long the party's interest weighed. 
And thus decreed the court above — 

" Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, 
Let Folly be the guide of Love, 

Where'er the boy may choose to go." 



FATIMA AND RADUAN. 

(FROM THE SPANISH.) 



Diamante falso y fingido, 
Engastado en pedernal, &c. 

False diamond set in flint ! the caverns of the mine 
Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of 
. thine ; 

Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, 
And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to 

bind. 
If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be, 
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. 
Oh ! I could chide thee sharply — but every maiden knows 
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 

Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids, 
Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest 

fades ; 
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every 

one 
That what thou didst to win my love, from love of me was 

done. 

F3 



130 FATIMA AND RADTJAN. 

Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, 

They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go ; 

But thou giv'st me little heed — for I speak to one who 

knows 
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes* 

It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear 
What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. 
Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! thou 

know'st I feel 
That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel. 
'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart 

with pain ; 
But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. 
I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every maiden knows 
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, 

Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran : 

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, 

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his 

cause : 
Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes — their dimness does me 

wrong ; 
If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image 

long: 
Thou hast uttered cruel words — but I grieve the less for 

those, 
Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 



THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 

(FROM THE SPANISH.) 



'Tis not with gilded sabres 

That gleam in baldricks blue, 
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, 

Of gay and gaudy hue — 
But, habited in mourning weeds, 

Come marching from afar, 
By four and four, the valiant men 

Who fought with Aliatar. 
All mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

The banner of the Phenix, 

The flag that loved the sky, 
That scarce the wind dared wanton witn, 

It flew so proud and high — 
Now leaves its place in battle-field, 

And sweeps the ground in grief 
The bearer drags its glorious folds- 

Behind the fallen chief, 



132 THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 

As mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
And beat of muffled drum. 

Brave Aliatar led forward 

A hundred Moors to go 
To where his brother held Motril 

Against the leaguering foe. 
On horseback went the gallant Moor, 

That gallant band to lead ; 
And now his bier is at the gate, 

From whence he pricked his steed. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet* 

And beat of muffled drum. 

The knights of the Grand Master 

In crowded ambush lay; 
They rushed upon him where the reeds 

Were thick beside the way ; 
They smote the valiant Aliatar, 

They smote him till he died, 
And broken, but not beaten, were 

The brave ones by his side. 
Now mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 



THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 133 

Oh ! what was Zayda's sorrow, 

How passionate her cries ! 
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free 

Than that poor maiden's eyes. 
Say, Love — for thou didst see her tears : 

Oh, no ! he drew more tight 
The blinding fillet o'er his lids, 

To spare his eyes the sight. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Nor Zayda weeps him only, 

But all that dwell between 
The great Alhambra's palace walls 

And springs of Albaicin. 
The ladies weep the flower of knights, 

The brave the bravest here ; 
The people weep a champion, 

The Alcaydes a noble peer. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 
12 






THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. 

(FROM THE SPANISH.) 



To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, 
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. 
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, 
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. 
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein, 
And towards his lady's dwelling, he rode with slackened rein ; 
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, 
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. 
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the 

Moor, 
" Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my 

door. 
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, 
That one in love with peace, should have loved a man of 

blood ! 
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, 
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. 
Ah thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see 
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. 
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife 
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife* 



THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. 



135 



Say not my voice is magic — thy pleasure is to hear 
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear. 
Well, follow thou thy choice— to the battle-field away, 
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. 
Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, 
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. 
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, 
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. 
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, 
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks. 
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, 
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong. 
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more 

thine own, 
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all 

alone." 
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry 

cheek, 
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 



'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, 
To gaze upon the wakening fields around ; 

Birds in the thicket sing, 
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground ; 

A thousand odours rise, 
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies. 

Shadowy, and close, and cool, 
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook ; 

For ever fresh and full, 
Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook ; 

And the soft herbage seems 
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 

Thou, who alone art fair, 
And whom alone I love, art far away. 

Unless thy smile be there, 
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 

I care not if the train 
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 



THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 

(FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.) 



Region of life and light ! 
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er ! 

Nor frost nor heat may blight 

Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 

There, without crook or sling, 
Walks the good shepherd ; blossoms white and red 

Round his meek temples cling ; 

And, to sweet pastures led, 
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. 

He guides, and near him they 
Follow delighted, for he makes them go 

Where dwells eternal May, 

And heavenly roses blow, 
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 

He leads them to the height 
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 
And fountains of delight ; 
12* 



138 THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 

And where his feet have stood 
Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 

And when, in the mid skies, 
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 

Reposing as he lies, 

With all his flock around, 
He witches the still air with numerous sound. 

From his sweet lute flow forth 
Immortal harmonies, of power to still 

All passions born of earth, 

And draw the ardent will 
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 

Might but a little part, 
A wandering breath of that high melody, 

Descend into my heart, 

And change it till it be 
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love ! in thee. 

Ah ! then my soul should know, 
Beloved ! where thou liest at noon of day, 

And from this place of wo 

Released, should take its way 
To mingle with thy flock and never stray. 



MARY MAGDALEN. 

(FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.) 



Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 
In wonder and in scorn ! 
Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 

Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
The Lord to pity and love. 

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 

Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
On that pale cheek of thine. 
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, 
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
Holy, and pure, and wise. 

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 

The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
Distil Arabian myrrh ; 
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, 

The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
Bear home the abundant grain. 



140 MARY MAGDALEN. 

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
Thick to their tops with roses ; come and see 
Leaves on the dry dead tree : 
The perished plant, set out by living fountains, 
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, 
For ever, towards the skies. 



THE SIESTA. 

(FROM THE SPANISH.) 



Vientecico murmurador, 
Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c. 

Airs, that wander and murmur round, 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow ! 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 

Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. 
Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast 

The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
Breathing soft from the blue profound, 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Airs ! that over the bending boughs, 
And under the shadows of the leaves, 

Murmur soft, like my timid vows 

Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 



142 THE SIESTA. 

Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 
Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 

Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below 



FROM THE SPANISH 

OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. 



Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 

The lovely vale that lies around thee. 

Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, 

When but a fount the morning found thee ? 

Born when the skies began to glow, 

Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, 

No blossom bowed its stalk to show 
Where stole thy still and scanty waters. 

Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, 
Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 

Its crystal from the clearest brook, 
Its rushing current from the swiftest. 

Ah ! what wild haste ! — and all to be 

A river and expire in ocean. 
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee 

To that vast grave with quicker motion. 



144 FROM THE SPANISH. 

Far better 'twere to linger still 

In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 
And die in peace, an aged rill, 

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 



THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 

(FROM THE GERMAN.) 



At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands ; 
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands ; 
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between 
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. 

" Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee ! 
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be ! 
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, 
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart." 

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear 
A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near ; 
They reach the castle .greensward, and gaily dance across ; 
The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribands 
toss. 

The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, 
She takes the young Count's fingers, and draws him to the 

ring; 
They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, 
u And ho, young Count of Greiers ! this morning thou art 

ours !" 

D3 



146 THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 

Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, 
Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away. 
They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across, 

the linn, 
Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in. 

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come ; 
Where stays the Count of Greiers 1 has he forgot his home ? 
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air, 
There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering 
there. 

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen 

down ; 
You see it by the lightning — a river wide and brown. 
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar, 
Till, seizing on a willow, he swings him to the shore. 

" Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell. 
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. 
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the waterspout, 
While me alone the tempest o'er whelmed and hurried out. 

"Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the 

rocks ! 
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy 

flocks ! 
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, 
That garden of the happy, where heaven endures me not ? 



THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 147 

" Rose of the Alpine valley ! I feel, in every vein, 
Thy soft touch on my fingers ; oh, press them not again ! 
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, 
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back." 



SONG. 

(PROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESUS.) 



Alexis calls me cruel ; 

The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 

He says, are not more cold. 

When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain's brim, 

And forest walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. 

I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame ; 

And tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 

Alas ! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to heart, 

And press a suit with passion, 
Is not a woman's part. 



SONG. 149 



If man comes not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 

They fade among their foliage ; 
They cannot seek his hand. 
13* 



SONNET. 

(FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO.) 



It is a fearful night ; a feeble glare 

Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky ; 

The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 
Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 
No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 

The sailors sleep ; the winds are loud and high ; 

Ah, peerless Laura ! for whose love I die, 
Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair ? 

As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 
I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 

A messenger of gladness, at my side : 
To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, 

And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide, 
I never saw so beautiful a night. 



LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 
(from peyre vidal, the troubadour.) 






The earth was sown with early flowers, 

The heavens were blue and bright — 
I met a youthful cavalier 

As lovely as the light. 
I knew him not — but in my heart 

His graceful image lies, 
And well I marked his open brow, 

His sweet and tender eyes, 
His ruddy lips that ever smiled, 

His glittering teeth betwixt, 
And flowing robe embroidered o'er, 

With leaves and blossoms mixed. 
He wore a chaplet of the rose, 

His palfrey, white and sleek, 
Was marked with many an ebon spot, 

And many a purple streak ; 
Of jasper was his saddle-bow, 

His housings sapphire stone, 
And brightly in his stirrup glanced 

The purple calcedon. 



152 LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 

Fast rode the gallant cavalier, 

As youthful horsemen ride ; 
Peyre Vidal ! know that I am Love, 

The blooming stranger cried ; 
And this is Mercy by my side, 

A dame of high degree ; 
This maid is Chastity, he said, 

This squire is Loyalty. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 

(FROM THE PROVENSAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.) 



All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. 
The forms of men shall be as they had never been ; 
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green ; 
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song, 
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long. 
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, 
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills. 
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, 
The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks, 
And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie ; 
And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die. 
And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, 
And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore ; 
And the great globe itself (so the holy writings tell), 
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell, 
Shall melt with fervent heat — they shall all pass away, 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. 



THE HURRICANE. 



Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning sky ! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane ! 

And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails ; 
Silent, and slow, and terribly strong, 
The mighty shadow is borne along, 
Like the dark eternity to come ; 
While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast — and the golden blaze 
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 
A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
To its covert glides the silent bird, 
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard, 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 
And the forests hear and answer the sound. 






THE HURRICANE. 155 

He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold 
His ample robes on the wind unroUed ? 
Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! — 
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; 
How his huge and writhing arms are bent, 
To clasp the zone of the firmament, 
And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, 
From mountain to mountain the visible space. 

Darker — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air : 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 

What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks, 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
And shedding a nameless horror round, 
Ah ! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 
With the very clouds ! — ye are lost to my eyes. 
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 
And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. 



MARCH. 



The stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; 

I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies. 

Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
Wild stormy month ! in praise of thee ; 

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou, to northern lands again, 

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train 
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

And the full springs, from frost set free, 

That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
Are just set out to meet the sea. 



\ 



MARCH. 157 

The year's departing beauty hides 

Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 
But, in thy sternest frown abides 

A look of kindly promise yet 

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 

And that soft time of sunny showers, 
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 

Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
14 






SPRING IN TOWN. 



The country ever has a lagging Spring, 
Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 

And June its roses — showers and sunshine bring, 
Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth ; 

To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 

And one by one the singing-birds come back. 

Within the city's bounds the time of flow r ers 
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, 

Such as full often, for a few bright hours, 

Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, 

Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom— 

And lo ! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 
Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, 

That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, 

And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers 

Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 

For here are eyes that shame the violet, 
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, 

And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, 
The anemonies by forest fountains rise k 



SPRING IN TOWN. 159 

And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak 
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 

And thick about those lovely temples lie 

Locks that the lucky Yignardonne has curled, 

Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy, 

And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world ; 

Who curls of every glossy colour keepest, 

And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 

And well thou may'st — for Italy's brown maids 

Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, 

And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, 
Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest ; 

But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, 

And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, 

To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give 

Such piles of curls as nature never knew. 
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. 

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, 
Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye 

Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet 
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 

The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, 

Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. 



160 SPRING IN TOWN. 

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, 
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, 

Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, 
A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 

Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 

To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay. 

Ye that dash by in chariots ! who will care 
For steeds or footmen now ? ye cannot show 

Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, 
And last edition of the shape ! Ah no, 

These sights are for the earth and open sky, 

And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 



SUMMER WIND. 



It is a sultry day ; the sun has drank 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the too potent fervours : the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
Motionless pijlars of the brazen heaven, — 
Their bases on the mountains — their white tops 
Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 



162 SUMMER WIND. 

That still delays its coming. Why so slow, 

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air 1 

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 

Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 

He hears me 1 See, on yonder woody ridge, 

The pine is bending his proud top, and now 

Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ! 

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! 

The deep distressful silence of the scene 

Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 

And universal motion. He is come, 

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 

And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, 

And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 

Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, 

By the road-side and the borders of the brook, 

Nod gaily to each other ; glossy leaves 

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 

Were on them yet, and silver waters break 

Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. 



AUTUMN WOODS. 



Ere, in the northern gale, 
The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale 

Have put their glory on. 

The mountains that infold, 
In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round 
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, 

That guard the enchanted ground. 

I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, 
Where the gay company of trees look down 

On the green fields below. 

My steps are not alone 
In these bright walks ; the sweet southwest, at play, 
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 

Along the winding way. 

And far in heaven, the while, 
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, 
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, — 

The sweetest of the year. 



164 AUTUMN WOODS. 

Where now the solemn shade, 
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet ; 
So grateful, when the noon of summer made 

The valleys sick with heat ? 

Let in through all the trees 
Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; 
Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze, 

Twinkles, like beams of light. 

The rivulet, late unseen, 
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 
Shines with the image of its golden screen, 

And glimmerings of the sun. 

But 'neath yon crimson tree, 
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, 
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 

Her blush of maiden shame. 

Oh, Autumn ! why so soon 
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad ; 
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 

And leave thee wild and sad ! 

Ah ! 'twere a lot too blessed 
For ever in thy coloured shades to stray ; 
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest 

To rove and dream for aye ; 



AUTUMN WOODS. 165 

And leave the vain low strife 
That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and power, 
The passions and the cares that wither life, 

And waste its little hour. 



A WINTER PIECE. 



The time has been that these wild solitudes, 
Yet beautiful as wild — were trod by me 
Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life 
Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse 
Beat with strange flutterings — I would wander forth 
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path 
Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, 
The quiet dells retiring far between, 
With gentle invitation to explore 
Their windings, were a calm society 
That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant 
Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 
To gather simples by the fountain's brink, 
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood 
In nature's loneliness, I was with one 
With whom I early grew familiar, one 
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 
From cares I loved not, but of which the world 
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked 
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, 



A WINTER PIECE. 167 

And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades, 

That met above the merry rivulet, 

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still, — they seemed 

Like old companions in adversity. 

Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook, 

Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay 

As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, 

The village with its spires, the path of streams, 

And dim receding valleys, hid before 

By interposing trees, lay visible 

Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts 

Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come 

Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, 

Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, 

And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, 

Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 

Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 

Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 

Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 

That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, 

Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, 

Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 

The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, 

And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent 

Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, 

The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow 

The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 

Of fox, and the racoon's broad path were there, 

Crossing each other. From his hollow tree, 



168 A WINTER PIECE. 

The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway 
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 

But winter has yet brighter scenes, — he boasts 
Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; 
Or Autumn, with his many fruits, and woods 
All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains 
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ; 
While the slant sun of February pours 
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 
And the broad arching portals of the grove 
Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks 
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 
Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move. 
But round the parent stem the long low boughs 
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide 
The glassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot, 
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, 
Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow, 
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud 
With amethyst and topaz — and the place 
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 
That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 
And fades not in the glory of the sun ; — 
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles 



A WINTER PIECE. 169 

Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye, — 
Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 
There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, 
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air 
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; 
Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks, 
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. 

And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams 
Are just set free, and milder suns melt off 
The plashy snow, save only the firm drift 
In the deep glen or the close shade of pines, — 
'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke 
Roll up among the maples of the hill, 
Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes 
The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, 
That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, 
Falls, 'mid the golden brightness of the morn, 
Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, 
Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe 
Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, 
Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, 
Such as you see in summer, and the winds 
Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, 
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
H 15 



170 A WINTER PIECE. 

The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye 
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — 
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
With unexpected beauty, for the time 
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. 
And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft 
Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds 
Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth 
Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail, 
And white like snow, and the loud North again 
Shall buffet the vexed forests in his rage. 



"OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." 



Oh fairest of the rural maids ! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thy infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thy eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes* is there. 
H2 



THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 



Gather him to his grave again, 

And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 

The warriors scattered bones away. 
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 

The homage of man's heart to death ; 
Nor dare to trifle with the mould 

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. 

The soul hath quickened every part — 

That remnant of a martial brow, 
Those ribs that held the mighty heart, 

That strong arm — strong no longer now. 
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 

Of God's own image, let them rest, 
Till not a trace shall speak of where 

The awful likeness was impressed. 

For he was fresher from the hand 

That formed of earth the human face, 

And to the elements did stand 
In nearer kindred than our race. 



THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 173 

In many a flood to madness tossed, 

In many a storm has been his path ; 
He hid him not from heat or frost, 

But met them, and defied their wrath. 

Then they were kind — the forests here, 

Rivers, and stiller waters paid 
A tribute to the net and spear 

Of the red ruler of the shade. 
Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 

Roots in the shaded soil below, 
The stars looked forth to teach his way, 

The still earth warned him of the foe. 

A noble race ! but they are gone, 

With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 

Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 

Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 

Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves ! 
15* 






THE GREEK BOY. 



Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, 

Glorious in mien and mind ; 
Their bones are mingled with the mould, 

Their dust is on the wind ; 
The forms they hewed from living stone, 
Survive the waste of years, alone, 
And scattered with their ashes, show 
What greatness perished long ago. 

Yet fresh the myrtles there — the springs 

Gush brightly as of yore ; 
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, 

As many an age before. 
There nature moulds as nobly now, 
As e'er of old, the human brow ; 
And copies still the martial form 
That braved Plataea's battle storm. 

Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek 
Their Heaven in Hellas' skies ; 

Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 
Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; 



THE GREEK BOY. 175 

Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 
Heard by old poets, and thy veins 
Swell with the blood of demigods, 
That slumber in thy country's sods. 

Now is thy nation free — though late — 

Thy elder brethren broke — 
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 

The intolerable yoke. 
And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 
Her youth renewed in such as thee ; 
A shoot of that old vine that made 
The nations silent in its shade. 



« UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." 



Upon the mountain's distant head, 
With trackless snows forever white, 

Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 
Late shines the day's departing light. 

But far below those icy rocks, — 

The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 

Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, 
Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 

'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts 
And eyes where generous meanings burn, 

Earliest the light of life departs, 
But lingers with the cold and stern. 



SONNET— WILLIAM TELL. 






Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 

Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ; 
For thou wert of the mountains ; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty. 

That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 

Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, 

And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. 

Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 

For the great work to set thy country free. 

H3 



TO THE RIVER ARVE. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OP MONT BLANC, 



Not from the sands or cloven rocks, 

Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 
Nor earth within its bosom, locks 

Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 

Begins to move and murmur first 
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 

Or rain-storms on the glacier burst 

Born where the thunder and the blast, 

And morning's earliest light are born, 
Thou rushes! swoln, and loud, and fast, 

By these low homes, as if in scorn : 
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 

And brighter, glassier streams, than thine, 
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, 

With heaven's own beam and image shine. 

Yet stay ! for here are flowers and trees ; 

Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, 
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 

Here linger till thy waves are clean 



TO THE RIVER ARVE. 179 

Thou heedest not — thou hastest on ; 

From steep to steep thy torrent falls, 
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 

It rests beneath Geneva's walls* 

Rush on — but were there one with me 

That loved me, I would light my hearth 
Here, where with God's own majesty 

Are touched the features of the earth. 
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 

Still rising as the tempests beat, 
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 

Among the blossoms at their feet. 



INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 



Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men 
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse 
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt 
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades 
Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof 
Of green and stirring branches is alive 
And musical with birds, that sing and sport 
In wantonness of spirit ; while below 
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade 
Try their thin wings and danoe in the warm beam 
That waked them into life. Even the green trees 
Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend 



INSCRIPTION TO A WOOD. 181 

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 
Existence, than the winged plunderer 
That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, 
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees 
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude 
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 
With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed 
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 
In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren 
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass 
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 

16 



"WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH 
DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM." 



When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, 
And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, 

And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, — 
How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim ! 

Oh, 'tis sad, in that moment of glory and song, 
To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, 

The glittering band that kept watch all night long 
O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one. 

Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, 

Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there ; 

And their leader the day-star, the brightest and last, 
Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air. 

Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, 
Steals o'er us again when life's twilight is gone ; 

And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame, 
Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on. 

Let them fade — but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight, 
Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die, 

May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light 
Of the dawn that effaces the stars from the sky. 



A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. 



Cool shades and dews are round my way, 
And silence of the early day ; 
'Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
Unrippled, save by drops that fall 
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall ; 
And o'er the clear still water swells 
The music of the Sabbath bells. 

All, save this little nook of land 
Circled with trees, on which I stand ; 
All, save that line of hills which lie 
Suspended in the mimic sky — 
Seems a blue void, above, below, 
Through which the white clouds come and go; 
And from the green world's farthest steep 
I gaze into the airy deep. 

Loveliest of lovely things are they, 
On earth, that soonest pass away. 
The rose that lives its little hour, 
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 



184 BANKS OF THE HUDSON. 

Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong, 
At thought of that insatiate grave 
From which its yearnings cannot save. 

River ! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last ; 
Nor long may thy still waters lie, 
An image of the glorious sky. 
Thy fate and mine are not repose, 
And ere another evening close, 
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 
And I to seek the crowd of men. 



THE WEST WIND. 



Beneath the forest's skirts I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 

And hear the breezes of the West 
Among the threaded foliage sigh. 

Sweet Zephyr ! why that sound of wo ? 

Is not thy home among the flowers ? 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 

To meet thy kiss at morning hours 1 

And lo ! thy glorious realm outspread — 
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 

And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head 
The loose white clouds are borne away. 

And there the full broad river runs, 

And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 

To cool thee when the mid-day suns 

Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love ; 

Spirit of the new wakened year ! 
The sun in his blue realm above 

Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 
16* 



186 THE WEST WIND. 

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 

On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird 
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 

Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — 
When not a shade of pain or ill 

Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, 
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur stiH. 



TO A MUSQUITO. 



Fair insect ! that, with threadlike legs spread out, 
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, 

Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about* 
In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, 

And tell how little our large veins should bleed, 

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. 

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, 
Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint, 

Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, 
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint : 

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, 

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. 

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, 
Has not the honour of so proud a birth, 

Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, 
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth ; 

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she 

The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy. 

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, 

And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, 

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, 
Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along : 



188 TO A MUSQUITO. 

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, 
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. 

And calm, afar, the city spires arose, — 

Thence didst thou hear the distant hum of men, 

And as its grateful odours met thy nose, 

Didst seem to smell thy native marsh again ; 

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight 

Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. 

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — 

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed 

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist ; 

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. 

Oh, these w r ere sights to touch an anchorite ! 

What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ? 
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light, 

As if it brought the memory of pain : 
Thou art a wayward being — well — come near, 
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. 

What say'st thou — slanderer! — rouge makes thee sick? 

And China bloom at best is sorry food ? 
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, 

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ? 
Go ! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime — 
But shun the sacrilege another time. 



TO A MUSQUITO. 189 

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch, 
To worship, not approach, that radiant white 

And well might sudden vengeance light on such 
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. 

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired 

Murmured thy adoration and retired. 

Thou'rt welcome to the town — but why come here 

To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee ? 
Alas ! the little blood I have is dear, 

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 
Look round — the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, 
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. 

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood 
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ; 

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, 
Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet : 

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, 

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. 

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows 
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now 

The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose 

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow ; 

And, when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, 

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 



« I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG. 3 



I broke the spell that held me long, 

The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet's idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more, 

For Poetry, though heavenly born, 

Consorts with poverty and scorn. 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its power 

Could fetter me another hour* 

Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget 

Its causes were around me yet ? 

For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 

Was nature's everlasting smile. 

Still came and lingered on my sight 

Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, 

And glory of the stars and sun ; — 

And these and poetry are one. 

They, ere the world had held me long, 

Recalled me to the love of song. 



THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 



I would not always reason. The straight path 
Wearies us with its never-varying lines, 
And we grow melancholy. I would make 
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit 
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced 
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 
Around me. She should be my counsellor, 
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs 
Impulses from a deeper source than hers, 
And there are motions, in the mind of man, 
That she must look upon with awe. I bow 
Reverently to her dictates, but not less 
Hold to the fair illusions of old time — 
Illusions that shed brightness over life, 
And glory over nature. Look, even now, 
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, 
Upon the saffron heaven, — the imperial star 
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn 
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, 
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, 
Amid the evening glory, to confer 
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down 
Kind influence. Lo ! their orbs burn more bright, 



192 CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 

And shake out softer fires ! The great earth feels 

The gladness and the quiet of the time. 

Meekly the mighty river, that infolds 

This mighty city, smooths his front, and far 

Glitters and burns even to the rocky base 

Of the dark heights that bound him to the west ; 

And a deep murmur, from the many streets, 

Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence 

Dark and sad thoughts awhile — there's time for them 

Hereafter — on the morrow we will meet, 

With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, 

And make each other wretched ; this calm hour, 

This balmy, blessed evening, we will give 

To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, 

Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. 

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared 
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, 
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 
The dog-star shall shine harmless ; genial days 
Shall softly glide away into the keen 
And wholesome cold of winter ; he that fears 
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, 
And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. 

Emblems of power and beauty ! well may they 
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw 
Towards the great Pacific, marking out 
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, 
Ere long, the better Genius of our race, 



CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 193 

Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, 
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, 
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back 
On realms made happy. 

Light the nuptial torch, 
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits 
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them 
That wed this evening ! — a long life of love, 
And blooming sons and daughters ! Happy they 
Born at this hour, — for they shall see an age 
Whiter and holier than the past, and go 
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, 
And shudder at the butcheries of war, 
As now at other murders. 

Hapless Greece ! 
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained 
Thy rivers ; deep enough thy chains have worn 
Their links into thy flesh ; the sacrifice 
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, 
And reverend priests, has expiated all 
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights 
There is an omen of good days for thee. 
Thou shalt arise from 'midst the dust and sit 
Again among the nations. Thine own arm 
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine 
The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings, — 
Despot with despot battling for a throne, — 
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, 
I 17 



194 CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 

Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall 
Upon each other, and in all their bounds 
The wailing of the childless shall not cease. 
Thine is a war for liberty, and thou 
Must fight it single-handed. The old world 
Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, 
And leaves thee to the struggle ; and the new, — 
I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale 
Of fraud and lust of gain ; — thy treasury drained, 
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs 
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, 
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, 
For thee, a terrible deliverance. 



JUNE. 



I gazed upon the glorious sky 

And the green mountains round ; 
And thought, that when I came to lie 

Within the silent ground, 
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, 
When brooks sent up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 
A coffin borne through sleet, 

And icy clods above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away ! — I will not think of these — 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
Earth green beneath the feet, 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 

Into my narrow place of rest. 

There, through the long, long summer hours, 

The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
12 



196 JUNE. 

The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale, close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife-bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts, at noon, 

Come from the village sent, 
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 

With fairy laughter blent ] 
And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know, I know I should not see 
The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow ; 
But if, around my place of sleep, 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been, 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene ; 



JUNE. 197 



Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills, 

Is — that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear, again, his living voice. 
17* 



THE TWO GRAVES. 



'Tis a bleak wild hill, — but green and bright 
Iu the summer warmth, and the mid-day light ; 
There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, 
And the dash of the brook from the alder glen ; 
There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, 
And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, 
And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath — 
There is nothing here that speaks of death. 

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, 
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die. 
They are born, they die, and are buried near, 
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier ; 
For strict and close are the ties that bind 
In death, the children of human kind ; 
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life, — 
'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife. 
They are noiselessly gathered — friend and foe — 
To the still and dark assemblies below : 
Without a frown or a smile they meet, 
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet ; 
In that sullen home of peace and gloom, 
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. 



THE TWO GRAVES. 199 

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, 
Two humble graves, — but I meet them not 
I have seen them, — eighteen years are past, 
Since I found their place in the brambles last, — 
The place where, fifty winters ago, 
An aged man in his locks of snow, 
And an aged matron, withered with years, 
Were solemnly laid, — but not with tears. 
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, 
Beheld their coffins covered with earth ; 
Their kindred were far, and their children dead, 
When the funeral prayer was coldly said. 

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, 
Rose over the place that held their bones ; 
But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, 
And the keenest eye might search in vain, 
'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, 
For the spot where the aged couple sleep. 

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil 
Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, 
And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, 
Where never before a grave was made ; 
For he hewed the dark old woods away, 
And gave the virgin fields to the day, — 
And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, 
Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before ; 
And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye 
Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky. 



200 THE TWO GRAVES. 

'Tis said that when life is ended here, 
The spirit is borne to a distant sphere ; 
That it visits its earthly home no more, 
Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. 
But why should the bodiless soul be sent 
Far off, to a long, long banishment ? 
Talk not of the light and the living green ! 
It will pine for the dear familiar scene ; 
It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold 
The rock and the stream it knew of old. 

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not ! 
Death to the good is a milder lot. 
They are here, — they are here, — that harmless pair, 
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, 
In the light cloud-shadows, that slowly pass, 
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. 
They sit where their humble cottage stood, 
They walk by the waving edge of the wood, 
And list to the long accustomed flow 
Of the brook that wets the rocks below. 
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, 
As seasons on seasons swiftly press, 
They watch, and wait, and linger around, 
Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground. 



THE NEW MOON. 



When, as the gairish day is done, 
Heaven burns with the descended sun, 

'Tis passing sweet to mark, 
Amid that flush of crimson light, 
The new moon's modest bow grow bright, 

As earth and sky grow dark. 

Few are the hearts too cold to feel 
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, 

When first the wandering eye 
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, 
That glimmering curve of tender rays 

Just planted in the sky. 

The sight of that young crescent brings 
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things — 

The hopes of early years ; 
And childhood's purity and grace, 
And joys that like a rainbow chase 

The passing shower of tears. 

The captive yields him to the dream 
Of freedom, when that virgin beam 
I 3 



202 THE NEW MOON. 

Comes out upon the air ; 
And painfully the sick man tries 
To fix his dim and burning eyes 

On the soft promise there. 

Most welcome to the lover's sight, 
Glitters that pure, emerging light ; 

For prattling poets say, 
That sweetest is the lovers' walk, 
And tenderest is their murmured talk, 

Beneath its gentle ray. 

And there do graver men behold 
A type of errors, loved of old, 

Forsaken and forgiven ; 
And thoughts and wishes not of earth. 
Just opening in their early birth, 

Like that new light in heaven, 



THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

When our mother Nature laughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 

The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 



Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And coloured with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest, when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



"INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER." 



Innocent child and snow-white flower ! 
Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 
Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. 

White as those leaves, just blown apart, 
Are the folds of thy own young heart ; 
Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 

Artless one ! though thou gazes t now, 
O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, 
Soon will it tire thy childish eye, 
Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
Throw to the ground the fair white flower, 
Yet, as thy tender years depart, 
Keep that white and innocent heart. 
18 



SONNET— MIDSUMMER. 



A power is on the earth and in the air, 

From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, 

From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 

Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants 
Are smitten, even the dark sun-loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze ; 

The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; 

For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; 

The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men 

Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town ; 

As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent 

Its deadly breath into the firmament. 



SONNET— OCTOBER. 



Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 

Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay 

In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, 
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 



SONNET— NOVEMBER. 



Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 

One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 

Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. 
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, 
And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze, 

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 

And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. 



A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 



Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam 

Cesariem regum, non Candida virginis omat 

Colla, nee insigni splendet per cingula morsu. 

Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, 

Tunc superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois 

Indus litoribus rubra" scrutatur in alg&. Claudian. 

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped 

With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright 

— The many-coloured flame — and played and leaped, 
I thought of rainbows and the northern light, 

Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, 

And other brilliant matters of the sort. 

And last I thought of that fair isle which sent 

The mineral fuel ; on a summer day 
I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, 

And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way ; 
Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone — 
A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. 

And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew 

The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, 

Where will this dreary passage lead me to ? — 
This long, dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot ? 

18* 



210 ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 

I looked to see it dive in earth outright ; 

I looked — but saw a far more welcome sight. 

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, 

At once a lovely isle before me lay; 
Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er, 

As if just risen from its calm inland bay ; 
Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, 
And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. 

The barley was just reaped — its heavy sheaves 
Lay on the stubble field — the tall maize stood 

Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves — 
And bright the sunlight played on the young wood — 

For fifty years ago, the old men say, 

The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. 

I saw where fountains freshened the green land, 
And where the pleasant road, from door to door 

With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, 
Went wandering all that fertile region o'er — 

Rogue's Island once — but, when the rogues were dead, 

Rhode Island was the name it took instead. 

Beautiful island ! then it only seemed 

A lovely stranger — it has grown a friend. 

I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed 
How soon that bright beneficent isle would send 

The treasures of its womb across the sea, 

To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. 



ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 211 

Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, 
Thou in those island mines didst slumber long ; 

But now thou art come forth to move the earth, 
And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. 

Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, 

And warm the shins of all that under-rate thee. 

Yea, they did wrong thee foully — they who mocked 
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; 

Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, 

And grew profane — and swore, in bitter scorn, 

That men might to thy inner caves retire, 

And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, 
That I too have seen greatness — even I — 

Shook hands with Adams — stared at La Fayette, 
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, 

He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, 

For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. 

And I have seen — not many months ago — 

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
And military coat, a glorious show ! 

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! 
How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! 
How many hands were shook and votes were won ! 

*Twas a great Governor — thou too shalt be 

Great in thy turn — and wide shall spread thy fame, 



212 ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 

And swiftly ; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, 

And cold New-Brunswick gladden at thy name, 
And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle 
That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. 

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat 
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive 

Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, 
Walking their steady way, as if alive, 

Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, 

And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. 

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, 
Like its own monsters — boats that for a guinea 

Will take a man to Havre — and shalt be 

The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, 

And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear 

As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. 

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear 
The grim old churl about our dwellings rave : 

Thou, from that " ruler of the inverted year," 
Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, 

And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, 

And melt the icicles from off his chin. 



AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE 
OF HIS FATHERS. 



It is the spot I came to seek, — 
My fathers' ancient burial-place, 

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 
Withdrew our wasted race. 

It is the spot, — I know it well — 

Of which our old traditions tell. 

For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river side ; 

I know the shaggy hills about, 
The meadows smooth and wide, 

The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 

Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 

A white man, gazing on the scene, 
Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not — I would the plain 

Lay in its tall old groves again. 



214 AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE 

The sheep are on the slopes around, 
The cattle in the meadows feed, 

And labourers turn the crumbling ground, 
Or drop the yellow seed, 

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 

Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. 

Methinks it were a nobler sight 

To see these vales in woods arrayed, 

Their summits in the golden light, 
Their trunks in grateful shade, 

And herds of deer, that bounding go 

O'er rills and prostrate trees below. 

And then to mark the lord of all, 
The forest hero, trained to wars, 

Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 

The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 

This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 

Hither the artless Indian maid 

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 

And the gray chief and gifted seer 

Worshipped the god of thunders here. 

But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior's breast, 



OF HIS FATHERS. 215 

And scattered in the furrows lie 

The weapons of his rest, 
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 
Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 

Ah, little thought the strong and brave, 
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth ; 

Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 

That the pale race, who waste us now, 

Among their bones should guide the plough. 

They waste us — ay — like April snow 

In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 
And fast they follow, as we go 

Towards the setting day, — 
Till they shall fill the land, and we 
Are driven into the western sea. 

But I behold a fearful sign, 

To which the white men's eyes are blind ; 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 

And leave no trace behind, 
Save ruins o'er the region spread, 
And the white stones above the dead. 

Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 

Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; 
The melody of waters filled 

The fresh and boundless wood ; 



216 AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE, ETC. 

And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 
And fountains spouted in the shade. 

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
The springs are silent in the sun, 

The rivers, by the blackened shore, 
With lessening current run ; 

The realm our tribes are crushed to get 

May be a barren desert yet. 



SONNET— TO COLE, THE PAINTER 
DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. 



Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies : 

Yet, Cole ! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand 
A living image of thy native land, 

Such as on thy own glorious canvass lies. 

Lone lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 

Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn streams- 
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams — 

Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. 

Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair, 
But different — everywhere the trace of men, 
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 

To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air. 

Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, 
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 
K 19 



GREEN RIVER. 



When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with waters of green ; 
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink, 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light, 
And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
The swifter current that mines its root, 
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill, 
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. 
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 
With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 
The flowers of summer are fairest there, 
And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 



GREEN RIVER. 219 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 
In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide, 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
But windest away from haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely — save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
Or the simpler comes with basket and book, 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
From dawn, to the blush of another day 
Like traveller singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear, 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them winding away from sight, 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
K2 



220 GREEN RIVER. 

Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
And mingle among the jostling crowd, 
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 
I often come to this quiet place, 
To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 
And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 
For in thy lonely and lovely stream, 
An image of that calm life appears, 
That won my heart in my greener years. 



TO A CLOUD. 



Beautiful cloud ! with folds so soft and fair, 

Swimming in the pure quiet air ! 
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 

Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow ; 
Where, midst their labour, pause the reaper train 

As cool it comes along the grain. 
Beautiful cloud ! I would I were with thee 

In thy calm way o'er land and sea : 
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 

On Earth as on an open book ; 
On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, 

And the long ways that seam her lands ; 
And hear her humming cities, and the sound 

Of the great ocean breaking round. 
Ay — I would sail upon thy air-borne car 

To blooming regions distant far, 
To where the sun of Andalusia shines 

On his own olive-groves and vines, 
Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky 

In smiles upon her ruins lie. 
But I would woo the winds to let us rest 

O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed, 



222 TO A CLOUD. 

Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes 

From the old battle-fields and tombs, 
And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 

Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, 
And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke 

Has touched its chains, and they are broke. 
Ay, we would linger till the sunset there 

Should come, to purple all the air, 
And thou reflect upon the sacred ground 

The ruddy radiance streaming round. 

Bright meteor ! for the summer noontide made ! 

Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. 
The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, 

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold : 
The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may'st frown 

In the dark heaven when storms come down, 
And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye 

Miss thee, forever from the sky. 



AFTER A TEMPEST. 



The day had been a day of wind and storm ; — 

The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, — 
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm 

Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 

I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 

Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. 

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. 

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 

And darted up and down the butterfly, 
That seemed a living blossom of the air. 
19* 



224 AFTER A TEMPEST. 

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 

Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair ; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 

It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 

And precipice upspringing like a wall, 

And glassy river and white waterfall, 
And happy living things that trod the bright 

And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all, 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 

An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
When, o'er earth's continents and isles between, 

The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 

And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 

No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o'erlaboured captive toil, and wish his life were done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 

The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 



AFTER A TEMPEST. 225 

The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. 
Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 

And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. 

K3 



THE BURIAL-PLACE-A FRAGMENT. 



Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires 
Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades 
Or blossoms ; and indulgent to the strong 
And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, 
Its frost and silence — they disposed around, 
To sooth the melancholy spirit that dwelt 
Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues 
Of vegetable beauty. — There the yew, 
Green even amid the snows of winter, told 
Of immortality, and gracefully 
The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; 
And there the gadding woodbine crept about, 
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years, 
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 
That trembled as they placed her there, the rose 
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke 
Her graces, than the proudest monument. 
And children set about their playmate's grave 
The pansy. On the infant's little bed, 
Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 
Emblem of early sweetness, early death, 



THE BURIAL-PLACE. 227 

Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, 
And maids that would not raise the reddened eye, 
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy 
Fled early, — silent lovers, who had given 
All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 
Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew 
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. 

The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep 
Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, 
In his wide temple of the wilderness, 
Brought not these simple customs of the heart 
With them. It might be, while they laid their dead 
By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, 
And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers 
About their graves ; and the familiar shades 
Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, 
And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand 
Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites 
Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, 
And rarely in our borders may you meet 
The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place, 
Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide 
The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves 
And melancholy ranks of monuments 
Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, 
Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind 
Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh, 
Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand, 
In vain — they grow too near the dead. Yet here, 
Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, 



228 THE BURIAL-PLACE. 

Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, 

The brier rose, and upon the broken turf 

That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine 

Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth 

Her ruddy, pouting fruit *****. 



THE YELLOW VIOLET. 



When beechen buds begin to swell, 

And woods the blue-bird's warble know, 

The yellow violet's modest bell 

Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 

Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 

Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould, 

And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 

Unapt the passing view to meet, 

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 
20 



230 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 

Oft, in the sunless April day, 

Thy early smile has stayed my walk, 

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 

So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried. 

I copied them — but I regret 

That I should ape the ways of pride. 

And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower 

That made the woods of April bright. 



"I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID DEVOTION." 



I cannot forget with what fervid devotion 

I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame : 

Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, 
To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. 

And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, 
'Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering long ; 

How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full 
bosom, 
When o'er me descended the spirit of song. 

'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened 
To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, 

Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened, 
All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene ; 

Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing, 
From his throne in the depth of that stern solitude, 

And he breathed through my lips, in that tempest of feeling, 
Strains warm with his spirit, though artless and rude. 



232 I CANNOT FORGET, ETC. 

Bright visions ! I mixed with the world and ye faded ; 

No longer your pure rural worshipper now ; 
In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, 

Te shrink from the signet of care on my brow. 

In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain, 
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain, 

By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain, 
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain. 

Oh, leave not, forlorn and for ever forsaken, 
Your pupil and victim, to life and its tears ! 

But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken 
The glories ye showed to his earlier years. 



LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 



I stand upon my native hills again, 

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky 
With garniture of waving grass and grain, 

Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, 
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
And ever restless feet of one, who, now, 

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year ; 
There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 

As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 

Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 

For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
To gaze upon the mountains, to behold, 

W T ith deep affection, the pure ample sky, 
And clouds along its blue abysses rolled, 

To love the song of waters, and to hear 

The melody of winds with charmed ear. 

Here, I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, 
Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air ; 
20* 



234 ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 

And where the season's milder fervours beat, 

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
The song of bird, and sound of running stream, 
Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. 

The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, 
From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. 

The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 

Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. 

The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all 
The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry time, 

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
He seems the breath of a celestial clime ; 

As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow, 

Health and refreshment on the world below. 



SONNET— MUTATION. 



They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — 

Pain dies as quickly : stern, hard-featured pain 
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign ; 

And after dreams of horror, comes again 
The welcome morning with its rays of peace. 

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease : 
Remorse is virtue's root ; its fair increase 

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness : 
Thus joy, overborne and bound, doth still release 

His young limbs from the chains that round him press. 
Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 
A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. 



HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 



The sad and solemn night 
Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 

The glorious host of light 
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. 

Day, too, hath many a star 
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 

Through the blue fields afar, 
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 

xlnd thou dost see them rise, 
Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 

Alone, in thy cold skies, 
Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, 
Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, 
Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 

There, at morn's rosy birth, 
Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 



HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 237 

And eve, that round the earth 
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. 

Alike, beneath thine eye, 
The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 

High towards the star-lit sky 
Towns blaze — the smoke of battle blots the sun — 
The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud — 
And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. 

On thy unaltering blaze 
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, 

Fixes his steady gaze, 
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. 

And, therefore, bards of old, 
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 

Did in thy beams behold 
A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. 



THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 



Wild was the day ; the wintry sea 

Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, 

When first, the thoughtful and the free, 
Our fathers, trod the desert land. 

They little thought how pure a light, 

With years, should gather round that day ; 

How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 

Green are their bays ; but greener still 

Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, 

And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 

With reverence, when their names are breathed. 

Till where the sun, with softer fires, 

Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
The children of the pilgrim sires 

This hallowed day like us shall keep. 



ODE 
FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION. 



Far back in the ages, 

The plough with wreaths was crowned ; 
The hands of kings and sages 

Entwined the chaplet round ; 
Till men of spoil disdained the toil 

By which the world was nourished, 
And dews of blood enriched the soil 

Where green their laurels flourished : 
— Now the world her fault repairs — 

The guilt that stains her story ; 
And weeps her crimes amid the cares 

That formed her earliest glory. 

The proud throne shall crumble, 

The diadem shall wane, 
The tribes of earth shall humble 

The pride of those who reign ; 
And War shall lay his pomp away; — 

The fame that heroes cherish, 
The glory earned in deadly fray, 

Shall fade, decay, and perish. 



240 ODE. 

Honour waits, o'er all the Earth, 
Through endless generations, 

The art that calls her harvests forth, 
And feeds the expectant nations. 



A WALK AT SUNSET. 



When insect wings are glistening in the beam 
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, 

Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, 
Wander amid the mild and mellow light ; 

And while the redbreast pipes his evening lay, 

Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day. 

Oh, sun ! that o'er the western mountains now 

Goest down in glory ! ever beautiful 
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou 

Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, 
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high 
Climbest, and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky. 

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, 

Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues 
That live among the clouds, and flush the air, 

Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. 
Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard 
The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird. 

They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, 
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; 
L 21 



242 A WALK AT SUNSET. 

They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, 

Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun ; 
Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, 
And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. 

So, with the glories of the dying day, 

Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, 

The memory of the brave who passed away 
Tenderly mingled ; — fitting hour to muse 

On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed 

Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. 

For ages, on the silent forests here, 

Thy beams did fall before the red man came 

To dwell beneath them ; in their shade the deer 
Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. 

Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, 

Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. 

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, 
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, 

And well-fought wars ; green sod and silver brook 
Took the first stain of blood ; before thy face 

The warrior generations came and passed, 

And glory was laid up for many an age to last. 

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze 
Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, 

And, with them, the old tale of better days, 
And trophies of remembered power, are gone. 



A WALK AT SUNSET. 243 

Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough 
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. 

I stand upon their ashes, in thy beam, 

The offspring of another race, I stand, 
Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream ; 

And where the night-fire of the quivered band 
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, 
1 teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. 

Farewell ! but thou shalt come again — thy light 

Must shine on other changes, and behold 
The place of the thronged city still as night — 

States fallen — new empires built upon the old — 
But never shalt thou see these realms again 
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. 

L 



HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. 



Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock ; 
While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold 
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; 
And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs 
That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs. 

Yet better were this mountain wilderness, 
And this wild life of danger and distress — 
Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, 
And meetings in the depths of earth to pray, 
Better, far better, than to kneel with them, 
And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. 

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land 
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand ; 
Thou dashest nation against nation, then 
Stillest the angry world to peace again. 
Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — 
The murderers of our wives and little ones. 

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth 
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. 



HYMN OF THE WALDENSE.S. 245 

Then the foul power of priestly sin and all 
Its long upheld idolatries shall fall. 
Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, 
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 



SONG OF THE STARS. 



When the radiant morn of creation broke, 

And the world in the smile of God awoke, 

And the empty realms of darkness and death 

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, 

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame 

From the void abyss by myriads came, — 

In the joy of youth as they darted away, 

Through the widening wastes of space to play, 

Their silver voices in chorus rung, 

And this was the song the bright ones sung. 

" Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, — 
The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 
Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole ; 
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

" For the source of glory uncovers his face, 
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : 
Lo, yonder the living splendours play ; 
Away, on our joyous path, away ! 



SONG OF THE STARS. 247 

" Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star, 

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 

And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews ; 
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone the night goes round ! 

" Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice like us, in motion and light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 

To weave the dance that measures the years ; 

Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, 

To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 

The boundless visible smile of Him, 

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim." 



HYMN OF THE CITY. 



Not in the solitude 
Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see 

Only in savage wood 
And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 

Or only hear his voice 
Where the winds whisper and the w r aves rejoice. 

Even here do I behold 
Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd 

Through the great city rolled, 
With everlasting murmur, deep and loud — 

Choking the ways that wind 
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 

Thy golden sunshine comes 
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, 

And lights their inner homes — 
For them thou filPst with air the unbounded skies, 

And givest them the stores 
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 

Thy spirit is around, 
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 



HYMN OF THE CITY. 249 

And this eternal sound — 
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 

Like the resounding sea, 
Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 

And when the hours of rest 
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 

Hushing its billowy breast — 
The quiet of that moment, too, is thine ; 

It breathes of Him who keeps 
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
L3 



"NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." 



When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, 
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, 

Saw the fair region, promised long, 
And bowed him on the hills to die ; 

God made his grave, to men unknown, 
Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, 

And laid the aged seer alone 

To slumber while the world grows old. 

Thus still, whene'er the good and just 
Close the dim eye on life and pain, 

Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust, 
Till the pure spirit comes again. 

Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, 
His servant's humble ashes lie, 

Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, 
To call its inmate to the sky. 



BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." 



Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenour keep ; 

The Power who pities man, has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of wo and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night ; 

And grief may bide, an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere, 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, 

Though with a pierced and broken heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 



252 "blessed are they that mourn. 

For God has marked each sorrowing day, 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 



THE SKIES. 



Ay ! gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 

That swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 

Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall old trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze, 
In the fierce light and cold. 

The eagle soars his utmost height, 

Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high, 
The storm has made his airy seat, 

Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet. 

Thence the consuming lightnings break. 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 

Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern : 
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 
22 



254 THE SKIES. 

A shout at thy return. 
The glory that comes down from thee, 
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 

The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 

The meek moon walks the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise. 
I only know how fair they stand, 
Around my own beloved land. 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 

That earth, the proud green earth, has not- 

With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 

And read of Heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, when, am" tne throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest. 



THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 



Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, 
And muse on human life — for all around 

Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, 
And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, 

And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, 

Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air. 

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear — 
A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs ; 

And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear, 
Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. 

A mournful wind across the landscape flies, 

And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs. 

And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, 
Watching the stars that roll the hours away, 

Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, 
And, like another life, the glorious day 

Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height, 

With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light 



SONNET— TO 



Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 

Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 
Shall deck her for men's eyes, — but not for thine — 

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 

And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; 
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
Glide softly to thy rest then ; Death should come 

Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 

Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; 
And we will trust in Ged to see thee yet again. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown 

and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie 

dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the 

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy 
day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood 1 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November 

rain, 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer 
glow; 



258 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty 

stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, 

glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the 

trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 



And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the 

leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet noUinmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 



HYMN TO DEATH. 



Oh ! could I hope the wise and pure in heart 

Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem 

My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — 

I would take up the hymn to Death, and say 

To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee 

And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow 

They place an iron crown, and call thee king 

Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, 

Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair, 

The loved, the good — that breath'st upon the lights 

Of virtue set along the vale of life, 

And they go out in darkness. I am come, 

Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, 

Such as have stormed thy stern insensible ear 

From the beginning. I am come to speak 

Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept 

Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again : 

And thou from some I love wilt take a life 

Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell 

Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee 

In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, 

Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 



260 HYMN TO DEATH. 

Thy nobler triumphs : I will teach the world 
To thank thee. — Who are thine accusers ? — Who ? 
The living ! — they who never felt thy power, 
And know thee not. The curses of the wretch 
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand 
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, 
Are writ among thy praises. But the good — 
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace. 
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off 
His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell ? 

Raise then the Hymn to Death. Deliverer ! 
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed 
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, 
The conqueror of nations, walks the world, 
And it is changed beneath his feet, and all 
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm — 
Thou, while his head is loftiest, and his heart 
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 
Almighty, sett'st upon him thy stern grasp, 
And the strong links of that tremendous chain 
That bound mankind are crumbled ; thou dost break 
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. 
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes 
Gather within their ancient bounds again. 
Else had the mighty of the olden time, 
Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned 
His birth from Lybian Ammon, smote even now 
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 
Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, 
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know 



HYMN TO DEATH. 261 

No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 
Only to lay the sufferer asleep, 
Where he who made him wretched troubles not 
His rest — thou dost strike down his tyrant too. 
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge 
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. 
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible 
And old idolatries ; — from the proud fanes 
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none 
Is left to teach their worship ; then the fires 
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 
O'ercreeps their altars ; the fallen images 
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, 
Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiding winds 
Shriek in the solitary aisles. When he 
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all 
The laws that God or man has made, and round 
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth, — 
Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, 
And celebrates his shame in open day, 
Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off 
The horrible example. Touched by thine, 
The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold 
Wrung from the o'er- worn poor. The perjurer, 
Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble 
Against his neighbour's life, and he who laughed 
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 
Blasted before his own foul calumnies, 
Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold 
His conscience to preserve a worthless life, 



262 HYMN TO DEATH. 

Even while he hugs himself on his escape, 

Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, 

Thy steps overtake him, and there is no time 

For parley — nor will bribes unclench thy grasp* 

Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 

Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, 

Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, 

And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life 

Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, 

And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, 

And check' st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand 

Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, 

And he is warned, and fears to step aside. 

Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime 

Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand 

Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully 

Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts 

Drink up the ebbing spirit — then the hard 

Of heart and violent of hand restores 

The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. 

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck 

The guilty secret ; lips, for ages sealed, 

Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length, 

And give it up ; the felon's latest breath 

Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime ; 

The slanderer, horror smitten, and in tears, 

Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 

To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make 

Thy penitent victim utter to the air 

The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, 



HYMN TO DEATH. 263 

And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the hour 
Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. 

Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found 
On virtue's side ; the wicked, but for thee, 
Had been too strong for the good ; the great of earth 
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile 
For ages, while each passing year had brought 
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world 
With their abominations ; while its tribes, 
Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, 
Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice 
Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs 
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn : 
But thou, the great reformer of the world, 
Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud 
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned — 
Ere guilt has quite o'errun the simple heart 
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 
His image. Thou dost mark them, flushed with hope, 
As on the threshold of their vast designs 
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. 

Alas, I little thought that the stern power 
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 
Before the strain was ended. It must cease — 
For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 
Ripened by years of toil and studious search 



264 HYMN TO DEATH. 

And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught 

Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 

To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 

Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes 

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou 

Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have 

To offer at thy grave — this — and the hope 

To copy thy example, and to leave 

A name of which the wretched shall not think 

As of an enemy's, whom they forgive 

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 

Whose early guidance trained my infant steps — 

Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep 

Of death is over, and a happier life 

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. 

Now thou art not — and yet the men whose guilt 
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he who bears 
False witness — he who takes the orphan's bread, 
And robs the widow — he who spreads abroad 
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, 
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look 
On what is written, yet I blot not out 
The desultory numbers — let them stand, 
The record of an idle revery. 



EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH." 



Earth's children cleave to Earth — her frail 

Decaying children dread decay. 
Ton wreath of mist that leaves the vale, 

And lessens in the morning ray : 
Look, how, by mountain rivulet, 

It lingers, as it upward creeps, 
And clings to fern and copsewood set 

Along the green and dewy steeps : 
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings 

To precipices fringed with grass, 
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 

And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 
Yet all in vain — it passes still 

From hold to hold, it cannot stay, 
And in the very beams that fill 

The world with glory, wastes away. 
Till, parting from the mountain's brow, 

It vanishes from human eye, 
And that which sprung of earth is now 

A portion of the glorious sky. 
* T 23 



TO A WATERFOWL. 



Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way ! 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 267 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 
M2 



NOTES. 



Page 13.— Poem of the Ages. 
In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the Author has 
endeavoured, from a survey of the past ages of the world, and of the suc- 
cessive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to jus- 
tify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of 
the human race. 

Page 50. — The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye. 
The prairies of the West with an undulating surface, rolling prairies , as 
they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a singular spectacle when 
the shadows of the clouds are passing rapidly over them. The face of the 
ground seems to fluctuate and toss like the billows of the sea. 

Page 51. the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 

Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not. 
I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours to- 
gether, apparently over the same spot ; probably watching his prey. 

Page 51. . These ample fields 

Nourished their harvests. 
The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi, indi- 
cate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at once populous and la- 
borious, and therefore probably subsisting by agriculture. 

Page 52. the rude conquerors 

Seated the captive with their chiefs. 
Instances are not wanting of generosity like this among the North Ameri- 
can Indians towards a captive or surviver of a hostile tribe on which the 
greatest cruelties had been exercised. 

23* 



270 NOTES. 

Page 89. — Her maiden veil, her own black hair, &C. 
" The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over 
the eyes." — Eliot. 

Page 94. — The Massacre at Scio. 
This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes 
by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predic- 
tions. The independence of the Greek nation, which it foretold, has come 
to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their op- 
pressors, did much to promote that event. 

Page 102. — Monument Mountain. 
The mountain, called by this name, is a remarkable precipice in Great 
Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley of the Housatonic, 
in the western part of Massachusetts. At the southern extremity is, or 
was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, according to 
the tradition of the surrounding country, by the Indians, in memory of a 
woman of the Stockbridge tribe, who killed herself by leaping from the 
edge of the precipice. Until within a few years past, small parties of that 
tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of the State 
of New-York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and for- 
mer residence. A young woman belonging to one of these parties related 
to a friend of the author the story on which the poem of Monument Moun- 
tain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, 
which, according to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in 
consequence, seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy her 
self. In company with a female friend she repaired to the mountain, deck- 
ed out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on 
its summit in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her na- 
tion, she threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed. 

Page 107. — The Murdered Traveller. 
Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, 
partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a sol- 
itary road passing between the mountains west of the village of Stock- 
bridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but 
no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected 
that one evening in the course of the previous winter a traveller had stop- 
ped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge ; that he had inquired the 
way to Stockbridge ; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he 
had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his 



NOTES. 271 

possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the 
same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, 
also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, 
had lingered for a while about the village of Stockbridge. Several years 
afterward a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, 
confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stock- 
bridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting 
the name or residence of the person murdered. 

Page 111. — Chained in the market-place he stood, &c. 
The story of the African Chief, related in this ballad, may be found in 
the African Repository for April, 1825. The subject of it was a warrior of 
majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima nation. He 
had been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio 
Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorn- 
ed with the massy rings of gold which he wore when captured. The refu- 
sal of his captor to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and he 
died a maniac. 

Page 118. — And stoops the slim papaya, &c. 

Papaya— papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the 
Geography and History of the Western States, thus describes this tree and 
its fruit : — 

" A papaw shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so dispro- 
portioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-looking leaves, of the 
same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an African luxuriance of growth, 
is to us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contemplated in the 
array of the woods. The fruit contains from two to six seeds, like those 
of the tamarind, except that they are double the size. The pulp of the 
fruit resembles egg custard in consistence and appearance. It has the 
same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, cream, 
sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too luscious for the relish of 
most people." 

Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the 
papaw ; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the 
matter, I have ventured to make my western lover enumerate it among the 
delicacies of the wilderness. 

Page 122. — Song of Marion's Men. 
The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of 
South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the annals of the American 



272 NOTES. 

revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the irregular and suc- 
cessful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring followers, 
that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the 
open field and fighting "like a gentleman and a Christian." 

Page 127. — Love and Folly. — (From La Fontaine.) 
This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of the graceful 
French fabulist. 

Page 129. — Fatima and Raduan. 
This, and the following poems, belong to that class of ancient Spanish 
ballads by unknown authors, called Romances Moriscos — Moriscan roman- 
ces or ballads. They were composed in the 14th century, some of thern, 
probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the Christians; 
and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of Grenada. 

Page 133. — Say, Love— for thou didst see her tears, &c. 

The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the original :— - 
Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste ; 

; Mas ay \ que de lastimado 
Diste otro nudo a la venda, 
Para no ver lo que ha pasado. 
I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited a composition 
as this old ballad, but I have preserved it in the version. It is one of those 
extravagances which afterward became so common in Spanish poetry when 
Gongora introduced the estilo culto, as it was called. 

Page 135. — These eyes shall not recall thee, &c. 
This is the very expression of the original. No te llamardn mis ojos, &c. 
The Spanish poets early adopted the practice of calling a lady by the name 
of the most expressive feature of her countenance, her eyes. The lover 
styled his mistress "ojos bellos," beautiful eyes, "ojos serenos," serene 
eyes. Green eyes seem to have been anciently thought a great beauty in 
Spain, and there is a very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he ad 
dressed his lady by the title of " green eyes," supplicating that he may re 
main in her remembrance. 

; Ay ojuelos verdes ! 
Ay los mis ojuelos ! 
Ay, hagan los cielos 
Que de mi te acuerdes ! 



NOTES. 273 

Page 143. — From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y Anaya. 
Las Auroras de Diana, in which the original of these lines is contained, 
is, notwithstanding it was praised by Lope de Vega, one of the worst of 
the old Spanish romances, being a tissue of riddles and affectations, with 
now and then a little poem of considerable beauty. 

Page 151. — Love in the age of Chivalry. 
This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre Vidal, has been 
referred to as a proof of how little the Provensal poets were indebted to 
the authors of Greece and Rome for the imagery of their poems. 

Page 153. — The Love of God. — {From the Provensal of Bernard Rascas.) 
The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nostradamus, in his 

lives of the Troubadours, in a barbarous Frenchified orthography : — 
Touta kausa mortala una fes perira, 
Fors que Pamour de Dieu, que tousiours durara. 
Tous nostres cors vend ran essuchs, coma fa l'eska, 
Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca, 
Lous Auselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu, 
E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu. 
Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettas 
Sent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, 
Lous crestas d'Arles tiers, Renards, e Loups espars, 
Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars, 
Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena, 
Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena, 
Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas, 
Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas. 
E nota ben eysso kascun : la Terra granda, 
(Ou l'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda, 
Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perira, 
Fors que V Amour de Dieu, que touiour durara. 

Page 154. — The Hurricane. 
This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria de Heredia, a 
native of the Island of Cuba, who published at New-York, six or seven 
years since, a volume of poems in the Spanish language. 

M3 



274 NOTES. 

Page 177.— Sonnet— William Tell. 
Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the volume, with the ex- 
ception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed according to the legiti- 
mate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, possesses no peculiar 
beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own lan- 
guage. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in fourteen lines 
than sonnets. 

Page 191. — The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus. 
This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place 
on the 2d of August, 1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent 
approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes. 

Page 226.— The Burial-Place. 
The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from 
the essay on Rural Funerals in the 4th number of the Sketch Book. The 
lines were, however, written more than a year before that number appear- 
ed. The poem, unfinished as it is, would not have been admitted into this 
collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had the honour 
of resembling so beautiful a composition. 



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